Lost in the Past
by Soledad
Summary: The explosion of the Hub at the end of "CoE: Day One" tears the Rift wide open. Ianto finds himself in 12th-century Wales with Gwen. There is no way to get back to contemporary Cardiff - how can they survive in the past until help arrives? First installment for my AU Season 3.
1. Chapter 1: The Awakening

**Title: ****Lost in the Past**

**Author:** Soledad

**Fandom:** Torchwood/Cadfael x-over.

**Rating:** Teens, mostly for violence.

**Genre: **Drama, perhaps a pinch of angst.

**Series:** First part of a CoE fix-it trilogy.

**Spoilers:** "Countrycide" and "CoE – Day One" for Torchwood, "The Summer of the Danes" for Cadfael. Nothing too detailed for the latter, though.

**Timeframe:** A sort of fix-it to CoE for Torchwood, although no happy end in the conventional sense of the world. Around the end and after "The Summer of the Danes" for Cadfael.

**Summary: **The explosion of the Hub at the end of "CoE: Day One" tears the Rift wide open. Ianto finds himself in 12th-century Wales, together with Gwen, of all people. There is no way for them to get back to contemporary Cardiff, so they have to see how they can survive 900 years in the past.

**Warning:** not for Gwen-fans. None of my stories are. If that bothers you, do us both the favour and hit the BACK button, now. Thanks.

**Disclaimer:** the usual: don't own, don't sue! Everything belongs to the almighty BBC and the fabulously talented Ms Ellis Peters. I'm just borrowing everyone for the sake of this story. The historic characters belong to themselves, obviously, but I hope they won't mind featuring here. I tried to treat them with the utmost respect.

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><p><strong>Chapter One – Awakening<strong>

Ianto Jones could feel himself waking up… but in that half-dream state where the line between dream and reality is blurred. He felt the slightly chilly yet gradually warming air of a summer morning not much after sunrise, and the pleasant, natural scent of the fresh outdoors – which was weird. Not unlike the day when they had reached the Brecon Beacons, actually, and started setting up camp. Before everything would have gone straight to hell, that is.

There they had been, sitting around on camping chairs, eating burgers. Gwen had started that stupid, thoughtless little _Who was your last snog?_ – game of hers, and Jack had asked if only humanoid species would count. At which Owen had called him a sick, sick man…

JACK! Ianto bolted upright in shock, his eyes wide open, without actually seeing his surroundings. Brecon Beacons had been more than two years ago, and when he had last seen Jack, they had been in the Hub, Jack with a bomb ticking inside his stomach. A bomb set only two minutes till the explosion – an explosion with a blast radius of a mile!

He had not wanted to leave Jack to die alone – _again_! – but Jack had grabbed him and dragged him to the invisible lift, tossing him, after a fast, desperate kiss, onto the platform and sending him to safety. Gwen had already left through the tourist office, running for her life and for that of her unborn child, and Ianto had been rising with the lift towards the complicated opening mechanism of the roof. He could see Jack pushing buttons to lock down the Hub, to contain the explosion as much as possible, hand hovering over his wrist strap, anxious to see Ianto get away.

Ianto had wanted to stay with him. If they could not _live_ together till they died, for the simple reason that Jack did _not_ die, or rather, he would not _stay_ dead, he had at least wanted to _die_ together. Preferably in Jack's arms. But Jack had needed him to get away, so that he would have the strength to face another horrible death and save the people of Cardiff through his death, and for his sake, Ianto had left.

Jack had been afraid. Ianto could see him close his eyes briefly when the computer had counted down to zero. Before the roof would open and allow him to leave. Before the Hub would lock down behind him.

Ant then everything had gone white. Before the lift would deliver him onto the slab with the perception filter, his last thought had been whether there would be anything left of Jack after such an explosion.

"You know me; I can survive anything," Jack had said. "I'll come back. I always do."

_For you_, the unspoken promise had hung in the air between them. But in _this_ case Ianto was not sure that Jack would be able to keep his promise.

* * *

><p>Fighting back his nausea, a sure sign that he was seriously concussed, Ianto opened his eyes to take in his surroundings.<p>

Then he blinked. Then he closed his eyes and opened them again, not sure that he was truly, fully awake just yet.

He had expected to see Roald Dahl Plass in ruins; debris and broken glass and bent metal everywhere. Not even the sealed Hub would have been able to contain an explosion of such magnitude without a great deal of collateral damage. He had been prepared to see dead bodies – lots of them. At this time of the year, the Plass was usually swarming with tourists.

What he saw instead made him question his own sanity. Profoundly.

There _were_ dead bodies all right, complete with the unmistakable, sickeningly sweet odour of death. After the Brecon Beacons, he would always recognize the stench of dead human flesh, no matter what. So yes, there _were_ bodies, although not all that many of them – but they were clad in some strange garb he had only seen in historic films about the Middle Ages. They were laid out in sombre order on the upland meadow grass, as if waiting for being collected and transported to their burial place.

Beyond them, looking down from the crest, Ianto could see the sea. Not the neatly ordered shore of Cardiff Bay, though. There were sand dunes, and beyond the dunes the morning mist was rising from the water like a diaphanous swirl of faint blue over the shore that still lay in quickly lifting shadow. Westward, the surface of the sea was bright already, flecked with the white shimmer of spray in the steady breeze.

It was a captivating sight – wild, untamed, unmarred by any human presence but the dead lying in the grass. A sight he could not remember having seen before. But again, he had not been to many places in his short life.

Where on Earth _was_ he anyway? Cos sure as hell this was _not_ Cardiff! How had he got here?

Well, unless he was still dreaming, the _how_ would be the easiest part to explain. The explosion might have torn the Rift wide open. If that was the case, he could have ended up _anywhere_. Perhaps he wasn't even on Earth anymore. He just hoped that – should the Rift ever decide to bring him back to Cardiff – he wouldn't end up in Flat Holm, with his sanity stripped away from him due to the things he was about to see.

_Let's hope I'm still on Earth, _he thought, in which case getting help would have been the most important factor. He patted himself down, in search for his mobile phone, but found nothing.

Literally nothing. Not only was his mobile phone gone; there was not much left of his clothing, either. His suit was in shreds, his shirt torn beyond repair in several places, his tie hung frayed around his neck, one of his shoes was missing – only his underwear was still more or less intact.

"Well if that isn't bloody fantastic!" he muttered angrily.

He _hated_ being in such dishevelled state. Could his father see him now, he'd be fit to be tied. Iefan Jones might have lost his small tailor's business due to economic recession, but he had been very conscious of appearances until the day he died.

Ianto looked around himself uncertainly. He was in the middle of a meadow that clearly served as the temporary resting place of those dead people in the strange clothes, but otherwise he could not see anything to identify his surroundings. He could see no fence or border markers anywhere – he was simply in the middle of the great outdoors, without specification. The sand dunes below _did_ remind him of _something_… in his current, confused state of mind, however, he just could not remember _what_ it was.

He shook his head. The fresh wave of nausea promptly reminded him what a stupid idea _that_ had been, so he waited for it to ebb a little again. He would think about the location later. Right now, getting some help – preferably in the form of clothes and medicine before anything else, though any means of transportation would be nice, too – was the most important thing. Unfortunately, he could see nothing for miles into the horizon. No building, no moving thing anywhere that he could tell. He shivered slightly, despite the warm summer morning.

_Perhaps the shock_, he thought, rubbing his arms while considering his next move.

Turning away from the meadow, he looked down at the shore again. Far away at the horizon, he saw movement, after all. Several long, lean boats, dragon-headed fore and aft, were heading westwards, driven by long oars; perhaps as many as twelve pairs of them, if he was counting correctly, against the breeze. Their small, square sails were turned sideways, so that they would use what little speed they could catch, despite the wrong direction of the wind.

"_Viking ships_?" Ianto muttered in confusion.

He pinched himself. Hard. The ships did not vanish. He pinched himself again. Nothing changed. He was definitely awake. Of course, there was still the possibility that the concussion caused him to see things that were simply _not_ there – or so he hoped. 'Cos the other possibility was just too weird to consider.

A loud moan startled him out of his muddled thoughts. Looking around again, in search for the source of that noise, he spotted the crumpled form of someone a good deal further, right close to the edge of the crest. It was a woman, by the shape of her, wearing a black leather jacket, with jeans and black leather boots, her clothes torn and bloodied, too.

"Oh, God," she moaned. "What the bloody hell… I'm so going to kill someone, once I'm back on my feet again…"

That voice… Ianto closed his eyes in pain, wishing the Rift would be a living entity that _could_ be killed. Of all possible people, it had to throw him here – wherever _here_ was – in the company of Gwen! Not that he would wish her any harm, but the perspective to be exiled on some alien planet with _Gwen_ made him even more nauseous than he already was.

On the bright side, she looked basically unhurt, save from a split lip. She must have been a lot further from the explosion than Ianto himself had been; which was logical, considering that she had left a little earlier. And that she wanted to kill the people who had made them end up here – _that_ was a sentiment Ianto definitely, whole-heartedly shared.

Unfortunately, he did not have the faintest idea who had been behind the attack against the Hub – he consciously and with great effort banned from his mind the mental image of Jack, lying in bloody pieces among the debris – or how to get back to Cardiff to kill the people responsible for the whole mess. _If_ they could get back at all, which he began to doubt seriously.

He tried to clamber to his feet, but the spiking wave of nausea warned him that if would be a bad idea. So he crawled over to Gwen on all fours, as careful as he could, hissing as the uneven ground rubbed his bare knees raw. Gwen was so wrapped up in her own misery that she did not even notice his pitiful approach, until he touched her arm. Which proved another really bad idea, as Gwen lashed out reflexively, giving him a great clout upside the head that nearly knocked him out cold again.

* * *

><p>When she realized it was Ianto she had hit, she was terribly sorry, of course, but <em>that<em> didn't make Ianto's concussion – or the increasing nausea – any better. He wasn't really angry with her, though; not this time. Under the given circumstances, no-one could blame her for panicking. Hell, _he_ was a hair's breadth from, panicking himself, and after the Battle of Canary Wharf and the Brecon Beacons he wasn't one who would panic easily.

"It's all right, Gwen," he waved off her profound apologies, "it wasn't your fault. I should have made more noise."

"You're bloody right, you should have!" she replied in a slightly hysterical tone; then she looked down herself and founded. "I look horrible, don't I? Look at my clothes! And my hair! I'm filthy, and in rags, and my boots are torn, too!"

"It's a good thing that I don't have that problem, then, isn't it?" replied Ianto dryly. "Seeing that I haven't got any clothes left and whatnot."

Gwen was terribly ashamed at once, realizing that fact for the first time. She did have a good heart, basically… when she wasn't too preoccupied with her own problems.

"Oh, Ianto, sweetheart, I'm so sorry!" her eyes were wide and full of tears. "But we'll get you help, right away! Just let me find my phone…"

Ianto, who _hated_ being called sweetheart, or love, or any other endearments, unless it would come from Jack, who rarely ever used any of them, rolled his eyes in exasperation but let her have her way. She actually managed to fish her mobile phone from a surviving pocket of her once so fashionable leather jacket, but no matter how much she tried, she couldn't get access to any known phone numbers. Or to any random, unknown ones, for that matter. Now she began to panic in earnest.

"Why can't we reach anyone?" she demanded, her tears flowing freely. "How am I going to get home? What's happening to us?"

Ianto suppressed a sigh. He could never deal well with hysterics; both Lisa and Rhiannon had been blessedly free of such tendencies, so he'd never had the chance to get used to them. He wished he'd be stuck here with Tosh, poor, practical, brave Tosh… even Suzie would have been preferable. But the Rift hadn't asked him in advance, of course.

"Get a hold on yourself, Gwen," he said through gritted teeth; perhaps a trifle more forcibly than intended. "We need to find a landline somewhere, as mobile phones are apparently useless. Or a person. Anyone. There has to be somewhere nearby a house or a farm or something. I mean, those dead bodies were laid out there by _somebody_."

"Dead bodies?" Gwen repeated, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. "What dead bodies?"

"Over there," Ianto vaguely gestured in the direction of the corpses. "No, don't go there! It's gross, and they can't help us anyway."

Of course, telling Gwen _not_ to do something was the surest way to practically force her to do it anyway. Not heading Ianto's warning, she rushed up to take a look – only to fall to her knees and become violently ill right afterwards.

Ianto resisted the temptation to say "told you so". Instead, he crawled to her, still on all fours, for standing up without help seemed a really bad idea, and shook her a little… as much as he dared without worsening his own condition.

"Gwen… listen to me! I need to get to the edge of the crest to take a good look at the landscape; perhaps I'll see something familiar. But I can't get there on my own. I'm concussed and dizzy and won't be able to stay on my feet. Can you help me?"

Momentarily forgetting her own misery, Gwen was all compassion and understanding at once… like a mother hen.

"Oh, Ianto, love, _of course_ I'll help you! Come, lean on me! It will be all right, you'll see, everything will be all right."

Ianto hated being called _love_ as much as he hated being called _sweetheart_ (again, with the exception of Jack who hardly ever used such words) but found it better not to fight with Gwen about semantics right now. Neither did he believe that anything would be all right, any time soon. But he needed Gwen's help, so he shut up and accepted it.

Even so, it was hard going. He kept stepping on sharp pebbles, thistles and other stinging things – and with one foot unshod and missing the sock, too, it wasn't a pleasant experience. He swayed by every other step, and nearly fell, despite Gwen's best efforts to keep him on his feet. She was simply too short and too weak to be of sufficient support, although she did try hard, he had to give her _that_.

It seemed a pain-filled eternity until they finally reached the rim of the crest – but the sight offering itself was well worth of the effort.

Before their stunned eyes a long, sandy shore stretched towards the horizon. The anchorage at the mouth of a great river was separated from the broad, sandy reaches of the bay to southward by a long spit of shingle, beyond which the water of another rivers and their tributaries wound its way to the strait and the open sea, in a winding course through the waste of sands. The long stretch of shallow tidal water extended more than two miles to the south from their vantage point, with a green shore beyond the pale gold shoals and the gleaming silver water rolling back into distant hills.

"It's beautiful!" Gwen whispered in awe. "Where are we, Ianto?"

"I can't be sure, of course," Ianto replied in a manner that revealed that he was, in fact, fairly sure about it. "The coastal line is familiar – but not familiar enough. In any case, those hills look a lot like Afron Menai on those prospects I sell in the tourist office."

"Afron Menai?" Gwen repeated in surprise. "You mean we're in bloody _Gwynedd_? How on Earth did we end up here, of all places?"

Ianto sighed. "Gwen, Torchwood Three has been studying the Rift since its discovery in 1879, but in more than two hundred years, no-one has managed to figure out how it works."

"True," Gwen admitted. Then she scanned the shoreline again. "You know, I only ever saw postcards of Afron Menai, but I could swear that the coastline looked differently. Not so empty, for starters. There ought to be tourist shops and cottages and ships and jetties… and stuff," she finished, a bit lamely.

"Well, I _did_ see ships heading westwards a short time ago," Ianto admitted," but they're gone now. Perhaps they were just a fringe of my imagination, 'cos I'm concussed. At least I _hope_ they were."

"You _hope_?" Gwen echoed, nonplussed. "Why?"

"Cos if they were real, then we've been replaced in time as well as in place," Ianto said grimly. "Those were Viking longships, Gwen! _Drakkars_! If they were real, then we've landed in the Middle Ages, and I can't even begin to guess _when_. The Danish kingdom in Dublin lasted for a bloody long time, and the Danes raided the Welsh lands frequently in those years."

Shocked, Gwen scanned the surface of the bay again, trying to find any trace of those ships but found none. That gave her new hope. Poor Ianto must have hit his head pretty hard to see ships that weren't there. The more important it was, then, to find some help. Granted, there were no signs of life anywhere that she could tell, but Ianto was right, _somebody_ must have laid out those dead people in the meadow grass. It was worth a try, if nothing else.

She cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled as loud as she could, voice rising an octave from the effort.

"HELLOOO! ANYONE AROUND? HELLO! HELP! ANYONE!"

She could hear her voice being carried away in the breeze, gliding along the surface of the water, but there was no answer. She strained to listen, but had no chance to catch anything above the humming of the breeze and the clashing of the waves against the shore.

She raised her hands to give it another try, when Ianto caught up with her, hobbling miserably, his face dark with anger.

"Are you bloody _insane_?" he demanded. "You could get us both killed!"

"But Ianto, we need help, love!" Gwen argued, wide-eyed with sympathy. "_You_ need help! Look at yourself: you're all but naked, and the sole of your foot is as good as shredded to ribbons. There, let's try to get to that river; there must be a road of some sort alongside it. There may even be a car we could flag down. At the very least it would lead _somewhere_. To a house. Or a town. Or a village."

"Yeah, cos we've been so lucky with villages in the outdoors," Ianto muttered. "If we're especially lucky, we might even meet the people who've killed all those blokes over there.

And he gestured in the vague direction of the dead bodies.

"Perhaps those are just dummies," Gwen tried to deny the sobering fact heroically, because accepting them would make her freak out too much. "I mean, have you got close enough to them to see if they're real blokes at all? What if someone is making some historic film here, and this is all just, you know, location?"

"Sure, and denial is just a river in Egypt," Ianto returned sarcastically. "Trust me; those are real, down-to-earth dead bodies over there. They could fake the corpses, the clothes, event he dirt and the blood – but not the stench. Not to me. Not after the Brecon Beacons."

The recall of _those_ memories shut up Gwen efficiently. She even considered getting sick again, but then realized that as she had already lost everything she had eaten in the last twenty-four hours, that wasn't really an option anymore. Dry heaves were so not her idea of fun.

"We should still try getting down to the river," she said after a while, a lot more subdued than before. "At least we could have some water to wash off the dirt. We may even find a road."

"Oh, I agree," Ianto sighed. "I just don't know how I'll get down there."

"Yes, you'll need something for your foot," Gwen gnawed her lower lip in frustration, trying to come up with a useful idea, but to no end.

Fortunately, Ianto was already ahead of her. "Help me to get out of my shirt," he said. "It's a lost case anyway, but perhaps I can bundle my foot in it."

The first couple of efforts led to nothing – the damaged shirt was too big and clumsy a piece of fabric to work with. Finally Ianto tore it to shreds, about a hand's breadth each, and Gwen swathed his bare foot with them like a mummy's, fixing the makeshift bandage with his frayed tie. The deep burgundy one. Jack' favourite. It looked ridiculous, but when Ianto gave it a try, it held as if glued on, and at least now he could walk without injuring himself any more.

"It will be hell to take off," Gwen warned. "Your foot is full of cuts and scratches; the drying blood's gonna glue the fabric to your wounds."

"I'll have to soak my foot, then, before taking it off," Ianto answered with a _very_ careful shrug. His head really disliked any sudden movements. "Let's go."

~TBC~


	2. Chapter 2: First Contact

**Title: ****Lost in the Past**

**Author:** Soledad

**Warning:** not for Gwen-fans. None of my stories are.

**Author's note:** Whatever RTD is trying to make us believe, I simply don't accept that Ianto would tell lies about his father. Why should he? It was a childhood memory shared with Jack spontaneously, so there was no need for him to lie. I hope I've found a convincing way around that particular discrepancy.

Also, as much as I tend to be mean to Gwen indeed, this time it's not my fault. I'm fairly sure that 12th century Welshmen would think roughly the same things about any 21st century woman. *g*

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><p><strong>Chapter Two – First Contact<strong>

Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd, second-born son of the Prince of Gwynedd, one of the most powerful Welsh kingdoms of that time, took upon himself the sad yet honourable duty of having their dead brought home. The long-lasting unrest, caused by his power-hungry uncle Cadwaladr, who had, in the end, brought a fleet of Danes against his own brother to force Owain to give him back his lands in Ceredigion, had finally ended.

The Danes were gone, with Cadwaladr's silver and cattle that he had to pay them as reparation for the gold they had hoped for and had _not_ been able to gain during this raid. Cadwaladr himself had been released, left to his own devices, as no-one but his most loyal followers wanted anything to do with him, and Owain's army ready to break camp and return home. All they still needed to do was to take their dead, shroud them for burial and lay them in the earth decently.

Hywel had entrusted this task to Cuhelyn ab Einion, one of his most trusted men, and Cuhelyn had ridden out with a small group of men-at-arms to see it done. The men had just begun to take care of their fallen ones (thankfully, there were less of those than there could have been), when Cuhelyn, who could not help them with the task – it would not have been easy, with only one hand, as he had – spotted two dishevelled figures struggling along the narrow dirt track that led down to the River Menai.

There were quite far away, even for his sharp eyes. The only details he could see from this distance were the height difference between them, and that the taller one was practically naked, while the shorter one wore some kind of black leather jerkin – if that _was_ indeed a jerkin. It had a most unusual cut.

"Goronwy," Cuhelyn whistled to one of his men and pointed in the direction of the two. "Come with me. We need to find out who these people are."

Goronwy, one of Prince Owain's trusted men in Bangor, took a good, hard look at the stumbling, ailing figures and nodded.

"They don't seem to be stray Danes," he judged, "But they might be wounded men of young Gwion's haphazard army."

"We cannot blame any man for keeping their fealty, just as we keep ours," Cuhelyn said. "They seem wounded indeed and may need help. In any case, we cannot allow them to roam Owain's land as they please."

As if proving his previous words, the taller figure faltered and fell. The smaller one tried to shake him awake, but with no effect.

"Oh, they do need help, no doubt about that," Goronwy swung nimbly into the saddle. "A good thing that we still have that old monk in camp; the Welsh one who accompanied Bishop de Clinton's envoy to Bangor. They say he nursed half the Danish troops back to health again, after the first skirmish."

They rode down from the crest with moderate speed – there was no reason to hurry – and reached the dirt track within short time. When they looked down at the two miserable figures, Cuhelyn realized that these were _not_ some strays from Gwion's troops. These had never been in the battle, despite their dishevelled looks.

The taller one, the one who had just passed out, was a well-grown young man, dark-haired and pale-skinned, with a broad, lightly furred chest – and almost naked, save from his small clothes and a strangely-made shoe on one foot. The other foot was thickly swaddled in dirty rags and bound with some red cord. He had an unmistakably Welsh face, with good, broad cheekbones and a button nose, refined like those of the nobly born, the smooth cheeks clean-shaven and handsome. The thick brows drew together above the nose in a manner that signalled pain or worry – or both.

But he clearly was no warrior, even though Cuhelyn's experienced eyes could spot the slight knobs where some ribs had once been broken, and the patches where he must have suffered heavy burns. The burn-marks, in Cuhelyn's estimate, must have been older; at least three or four years old, and healed quite well. If anything, though, the young man looked a little soft, with the shapely, long-fingered hands of a scribe or a musician. Rather a scribe, Cuhelyn corrected himself, as the fingertips lacked the typical calluses caused by harp-strings. Perhaps the clerk of some wealthy lord.

But what was he doing out here, unarmed, all but naked – and unconscious? Had he been robbed? Why had he not defended himself? No self-respecting Welshman would go on any journey in these days without at least a good, solid knife to defend himself against footpads. And there could be no doubt that the young man had _not _defended himself. For that, his current injuries were too minor, caused by the sharp ends of broken branches and the likes.

Had he let himself be stripped of everything meekly and without resistance? Somehow Cuhelyn could not believe that. There was a stubborn streak in that young face that belied any such assumption. But what had happened to him then?

"Cuhelyn?" the puzzled tone of Goronwy interrupted his thoughts. "What say you: is this other one a man or a wench?"

Cuhelyn turned his attention to the other person, hesitating for a moment with his judgement. The other one, wearing torn black boots, strange-looking hoses and that thing that looked like a leather jerkin but was none, _could_ have been a long-haired boy… but as his glance slid lower, he saw the definitely feminine curves under the leather and whatever fabric the shirt beneath was made of.

No, this _was_ a wench, without doubt. Dressed like a man, for some reason – and not very convincingly, at that. If she hoped for safety on the road, she had failed. A blind man could have seen through her disguise. That tight shirt under the leather barely concealed her breasts. Whom was she trying to fool with such a half-arsed attempt?

Cuhelyn shook his head in wry amusement. Well, they will see what was all this about.

_Time to get some answers_, he thought, looking down at the two, with his one hand on his hip.

"Who are you and how did you get here?" he demanded.

His voice, though not pitched in a threatening manner, seemed to startle her, which surprised him. How could she _not_ have heard the clattering of hooves? Was she deaf, or at least of limited hearing?

He repeated the question, but got no answer. She just stared up to him, with impossibly wide, mesmerising eyes that were brimming over with tears, and trembling lips. In those huge eyes, there was panic and perchance a little bit of hope – but no understanding at all.

Cuhelyn repeated the question a third time, with the same results. She clearly did not understand his words. Perhaps she was not Welsh, after all, even though her round face, markedly older than that of her passed-out companion, showed definite Welsh features. _And_ she was gawking with mute horror at his maimed arm, the one that ended right under the elbow, which made Cuhelyn edgy.

As a rule, he did not mind people asking what had happened to his sword-arm; after all, he had lost it honourably, defending his lord and sworn brother to the bitter end. What he very much minded, though, was when they stared at him as if he were some sort of misshapen monster; like those poor creatures shown on the fairs for money. Maimed he might be, but he was still a warrior, accepted by Owain Gwynedd himself, and he would be damned if he let some runaway wench look at him like _that_!

Fortunately, before he could have worked up himself to full rage (which did not take long in these days) the unconscious man started to moan softly.

"He's coming to his senses," Goronwy said in relief. "Now we may get some sensible answers, as _she_ is clearly mad."

* * *

><p>When Ianto came to, the first thing he noticed was a splitting headache, combined with a fresh wave of nausea and a sharp pain in his lower back. He must have injured his back during the explosion, but hadn't had the time to realize it… until now.<p>

The second thing he noticed was that someone was talking to them, in a slightly raised voice, as if they were talking to someone with impaired hearing – or of very slow wit. The language sounded vaguely Welsh, but it was a dialect he could not remember to have ever heard before. He could not really understand it, despite some familiar-sounding words. That annoyed him to no end. He _hated_ it when he could not understand something. _Anything_. Especially a language that made he feel as if he ought to know it, while he clearly did not. It was not fair.

All too well could he recognize and understand Gwen's voice, however, who was desperately pleading to someone for help. In _English_.

"Please, please, I can't understand you! I have no idea what you're talking about! I don't know where I am or how I got there! Could you take me to a phone, please?"

The voice he had heard previously – a man's voice – asked something again in that Welsh-sounding language. Gwen obviously did not understand it either, because she sounded rather angry now. Royally pissed, to be more accurate.

"Great! _Finally_ someone turns up, only to behave like a complete moron! Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! I'm surrounded by freaks!"

"Gwen," Ianto groaned, still unable to lift his leaden eyelids. "Try to speak Welsh… it may be more helpful."

Gwen hugged him spontaneously, which did nothing to make his concussion any better. _Or_ his nausea. _Or_ the pain in his lower back.

"Oh, sweetheart, you're awake again!" she enthused. "Thank God! I think we might have wandered into the middle of some bloody re-enactment society shinding. God, but they're complete morons! Perhaps _you_ can reason with them."

Curiosity made Ianto fight gravity successfully enough to open his eyes, after all. With Gwen's help, he sat up – well, more or less – and looked around him.

The first thing he saw were the horses. Good, sturdy Welsh horses, of the breed that had become known as the Powys Cob and known for its agility and endurance, about thirteen hands high and of a dark chestnut colour, with their bold eyes set far apart. They were saddled and harnessed in old-fashioned, almost barbaric pomp, the harnesses decorated with finely-wrought brass plaques and the saddle-cloths made of good wool.

The men sitting in the saddles were clad in a similar style as the dead people laid out in the grass: in knee-length tunics, the form-fitting leggings called _hose_ in the Middle Ages, good riding boots, and the _brychan_, a rectangular piece of woollen cloth that had been used both ad a cloak and as bedding in those times, fastened on their shoulder with decorative brooches.

One of them got down from his horse and came slowly towards them, holding out his right hand in a placating gesture, showing that he meant no harm. He was a young man of true Welsh build, sturdy and compact, very trim in his medieval attire, and even comely in his dark and brooding fashion, focussing his pitch-black eyes wholly on Ianto's face, giving him the uncomfortable feeling that he could see through him like through glass. As he drew nearer, Ianto could see that his left forearm terminated only a few inches below the elbow. A fine linen cloth was drawn over the stump like a glove, secured by a thin silver bracelet.

He asked something again, but the question was just as incomprehensible as the last time. It still sounded like Welsh – but it wasn't, not really. Of course, Ianto himself was far from being fluent, so if it _was_ Welsh, some obscure dialect spoken in some isolated northern village, he would not even recognize it. He shook his head in mute apology – and then he had to sit very, very still, until the wave of nausea passed again. Somehow he thought that throwing up all over the young man wouldn't really help their case.

Meanwhile Gwen, fed up with being ignored – cos really, what were these blokes _thinking_? – decided to take things into her own hand. She sprang to her feet – causing both newcomers to grasp for their swords reflexively and nearly skewering her by pure instinct – and started to talk to the one-armed man, slowly and overly articulated, as if he were talking to a slow-witted child.

"Me," she pointed at herself. "Lost. Your know, _lost_?"

The young man stared at her in bewilderment. She sighed and tried another approach.

"Phone?" she held her hand to her ear, mimicking the use of a phone, which most likely made the man think that she had problems with her hearing. "Umm… house? Hotel? Taxi rank?" Still no reaction. She stomped with her foot in utter frustration. "Oh, God! HELP ME, DAMN YOU!"

She started swearing profusely and looked at Ianto in defeat. "This is completely hopeless. This man is obviously a moron."

"I think… the problem is… that he can't understand you," Ianto croaked and shivered, shock starting to get to him.

The one-armed man must have noticed it, because he shrugged off his cloak and draped it over Ianto's bare shoulders with surprising ease. He must have learned a great deal of one-handed skills since losing part of his other arm.

Ianto thanked him. In Welsh. The man seemed to understand _that_, at least, for he briefly smiled. But whatever it was that he answered, Ianto could not understand. Even if it was the local version of _don't mention it_.

It didn't matter though. What mattered was the fine, warm woollen cloak he could wrap around himself like a cocoon. Ianto knew he had to be in shock, from the concussion, from the original explosion that had launched them… well, wherever – or _whenever_ – they were right now; that was what made him shiver, for the morning was sunny and warm. He could have kissed his benefactor, had that not led to dangerous misunderstandings.

The one-armed man was speaking again, gesturing towards his horse. Ianto understood that the men wanted them to ride home with them, and in theory he wouldn't even be adverse. A house meant a bed and perhaps even a bath to get clean and clothes to borrow. Infinitely preferable to sleeping under the open sky, semi-naked.

The only problem was: he didn't know how to ride. The last time in a saddle had been on his sixth birthday, when the whole family had gone to visit a pony farm. Right before his father would have lost his tailor shop and had to go to work for Debenham's to feed his family somehow.

"I'm afraid I'm not really a horseman," he said in slow, carefully articulated Welsh.

At least he _hoped_ that _that_ was what he said, not something unintentionally obscene. His Welsh, learned during school holidays spent by his fiercely patriotic maternal grandparents, was sporadic at best in these days. For good measure, he carefully patted the back of his own head and made a painful grimace, signalling that his head hurt – another sound reason to keep away from a horse.

The one-armed man seemed to understand his dilemma, because he explained, with the help of a great deal of creative pantomime, that he'll go slowly and carefully. Then he threw his one good arm across Ianto's back, grabbed him under the arm and hauled him to his feet. One-armed. Without help. Despite the fact that he was a good head shorter than Ianto and didn't exactly look like a bodybuilder. It was an impressive move; Gwen stared at him with her mouth hanging literally open.

She couldn't ogle them much longer, though, because the other man rode up to them, leaned down from the saddle, grabbed _her_ under the arms and pulled her onto the horse before him, without as much as by-your-leave. Gwen, who had never been on a horse before, screamed and kicked and swore with all her might, but the man held her firmly by the waist, grinning like a loon. Then he pulled the reins, and the horse galloped off, the dirt of the track spraying from its hooves until they reached the upland meadow grass, leaving the dunes behind.

"Gwen!" Ianto cried out anxiously, suddenly very afraid what might happen to her. She wasn't exactly suited to survive in an unknown environment.

The one-armed man laid a steadying hand upon his shoulder and said something he still could not understand; not entirely. There were two words that sounded somewhat familiar to him in all that Welsh-sounding gibberish, though: the name Owain Gwynedd and something that sounded akin to camp.

That calmed him down a little. Whether these blokes were members of some weird re-enactment society as Gwen had supposed, riding across the country, taking part in the Battle of Crug Mawr or whatever (which still would not explain the very real dead bodies, an aspect that made Ianto extremely uncomfortable), or they had indeed landed in the past (which, in his estimate, wouldn't be a much better perspective), at least they were now on their way to some sort of encampment. That meant food, hopefully clothes, at least a brychan to sleep on and, if he was incredibly lucky, perhaps even medical help or a bath.

_If_ he managed to get there in one piece, that is. The necessity of riding a horse still filled his with dread.

The one-armed man was making preparations to leave already. He whistled his horse closer – fortunately, it seemed to be a rather good-natured beast, perhaps trained to carry handicapped people; not surprising, considered its rider – and made Ianto lean against the high, arched neck of the good beast. Then he re-wrapped his cloak around Ianto's battered body in the style of a Roman toga, fastening it with his own gilded brooch on the shoulder. It was truly amazing what he could do with only one hand and the help of his arm stump.

That done, he guided Ianto's foot – the one with the remaining shoe – into the stirrup and lifted the much taller man into the saddle with seemingly no effort at all. Then he swung onto the horse himself, taking the reins in his hand, holding Ianto around the waist with his maimed arm. He spoke to the horse softly, and the faithful beast started to walk in a slow, careful pace, following the other rider who had gone off with Gwen for their camp, wherever it might be. Ianto hoped fervently that they would reach their destination without his head getting any worse.

* * *

><p>Owain ap Gruffydd, the ruling Prince of Gwynedd, was ready to break camp and leave. He had set up his headquarters in an abandoned farmstead, in order to face the Danish intruders and cast them back into the sea from where they had come. Now that <em>that<em> had been taken care of, he no longer had a reason to stay here. Nor did he want to do so. He had enough other things to deal with, in other parts of Gwynedd.

One more day, and he would take his muster back to Carnarvon, and thence dismiss those with their lands in Arfon and in Anglesey, before continuing on to Aber. After a great deal of thought, he had even decided to suffer Cadwaladr to return with him, and those who knew him best – his son Hywel before anyone else – knew that Cadwaladr would soon be restored to the possession of at least _some_ of his lands. For even though he had caused great harm and made a needful alliance between Gwynedd and Deheubarth impossible, Owain loved his errant brother too much to shut him out of his grace for good.

All they still needed to do was to pick up their dead, and they would be able to leave. They had been fortunate that Cadwaladr's prideful defiance against his brother had not caused even more deaths, on either side.

Tomorrow, the camp would be dismantled, its improvised defences taken down. The husbandman would come back to his farmhouse, bringing his beasts with him, and return to the care of his land and his stock, as if nothing had happened. As his forefathers had done time after time, giving ground for a while to marauding intruders. They might not have been able to beat such enemies on their own, but they could always outwait, outrun and outlast them. They might have left their expendable homesteads for the hills at the approach of an enemy, but they had only left them to return and to rebuild.

This time would not be any different. The Welsh were a people of great endurance.

Hywel must have had similar thoughts as his father, for his usually so bright eyes were clouded with regret as he looked out towards the sea.

"Well," he said, pondering gains and losses, "All seems to have ended to everyone's satisfaction. We settled what might well have been a bloody business with as little loss of lives as possible, and now life can return to whatever level of sanity men holding old grudges may hope to achieve. You'll restore Cadwaladr, no doubt, even though only on probation for the time being. And the Danes have their fee."

"It was promised," his father said simply.

"I don't grudge it," Hywel replied. "It might have cost far more. And yet two thousand marks of silver cannot buy back the lives of Otir's three young men who are now being brought back to Dublin for burial. Nor those few of Gwion's following that we've picked up dead from the surf. Nor Gwion himself, a victim of his own displaced, unmovable loyalty – which I consider the heaviest loss of all."

"'Tis always a waste if a good man dies for the wrong case," the Prince of Gwynedd agreed. "But we cannot blame him for his faithfulness; and in the end, he died in peace. I wish we had more men of his unwavering honesty; albeit perchance of a more adaptable mind."

They laughed, quietly and a little sadly, for while the losses, both in wealth and in lives, had been limited, they had also been wholly unnecessary. And both Owain and his second-born hated waste. Then Hywel, whose eyes were still cast seawards, spotted something – or rather _someone_ – in that direction, still far away; and he frowned.

"It seems that Cuhelyn and his men are returning already. I wonder how they had managed to shroud those corpses in such a short time."

"They, too, wish to return home as much as everyone else, I suppose," Owain Gwynedd replied with a shrug. "When the home fires burn brightly, the hands work in a great haste, 'tis said."

But it was not Cuhelyn's men who were returning early. It was a lonely horseman (whom they soon recognized as Goronwy ap Ithel, their trusted scout from Bangor), holding a screaming, kicking wench before him in the saddle.

At least Owain _thought_ it was a wench. She had womanly enough curves in all the right places, even though she was clad like a man, and in a rather outlandish fashion, at that. And her screech was worse than that of a brawn owl.

"Now, Goronwy," said the Prince of Gwynedd, his mood pending somewhere between amusement and outrage, "would you care to explain what have you dragged before my threshold – and, more importantly, _why_?"

"That, my lord, is a more complicated question than you would think," answered Goronwy. I for my part will wait for Cuhelyn to give an explanation – assuming that he can."

~TBC~


	3. Chapter 3: Prince Owain Weighs In

**Title: ****Lost in the Past**

**Author:** Soledad

**Disclaimer:** the usual: don't own, don't sue! Everything belongs to the almighty BBC and the fabulously talented Ms Ellis Peters. I'm just borrowing everyone for the sake of this story. The historic characters belong to themselves, obviously, but I hope they won't mind featuring here. I tried to treat them with the utmost respect.

**Fandom:** Torchwood/Cadfael x-over.

**Rating:** Teens, mostly for violence.

**Genre: **Drama, perhaps a pinch of angst.

**Series:** none

**Warning:** not for Gwen-fans. None of my stories are.

**Author's note:** Just to avoid any misunderstandings: in medieval sense, a leech was also a field surgeon: someone who dealt with battle wounds on the spot. *g*

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three – Prince Owain Weighs In<strong>

Ianto felt more dead than alive when the horse finally trotted up with him and his one-armed protector to an impressively well-organized camp, set up around an old farmhouse, the likes of which he had only ever seen in museums, displayed as models or dioramas. The hastily-raised defences revealed that the people within the fence were accepting battle… or rather had been, as some of said defences were being dismantled right now.

The tents had been set up following a pattern he could not quite figure out in his current state of mind, but there was a square left open in front of the house itself; supposedly the place where the warlord of the camp would listen to the reports of his scouts.

A young man, surely no more than twenty and clad rather splendidly, in the fashion of a courtier rather than that of a warrior, came forth from the house to take the reins, moving with an easy confidence and grace. He was a tall fellow, at least compared with everyone else around them, and fair-skinned, with short, curly hair of a light, reddish brown. He wore gemstones about his neck, signalling either high rank or high birth – or both.

"Cuhelyn!" he said, by way of greeting the one-armed man, who nodded back at him.

His flashing grin was mischievous but amiable; it reminded Ianto painfully of Jack's. He then continued in the same not-quite-Welsh that the one-armed warrior, whose name was apparently Cuhelyn, had used, turning to Ianto and measuring him from aching head to bandaged foot with one brilliant glance.

Ianto shook his head apologetically – and swayed in the saddle. That made the others aware of his condition, and two pairs of strong hands (well, one pair and a half, to be more accurate) helped him down to the solid ground. Cuhelyn seemed to explain the young courtier something, calling him Hywel (which was the only thing Ianto understood) in a low voice. Hywel nodded, called out to someone, and soon more people came, servants by their simple garb, and supported Ianto from both sides, helping him to get inside the farmhouse.

Within, it was still chilly from the night. The house had been dug to one third into the earth, and thus it would not warm up so quickly. It was also dimly-lit, having no windows at all, with the open door as the only source of illumination. But at least it had a roof, and a small fire in the central firepit – a hundred per cent improvement to the sandy shore of Afron Menai… if that was truly their current location.

Plus, Ianto saw with relief that they had brought Gwen here, too. She seemed unhurt and was not bound, either, although one of the servants apparently kept a close and wary eye on her. Ianto wondered what kind of temper tantrums she must have thrown during the short time they had been separated if they were already wary of her.

Seeing Ianto arrive, she jumped to her feet with a shriek of relief and ran to him, shaking off any hands that would try to stop her.

"Oh, Ianto, thank God, I thought I'd never see you again!" she exclaimed in tears. "I thought these Neanderthals were gonna kill me. Or rape me. Oh, I was so _scared_! I don't even have a gun on me to protect myself. Or at least a stun gun."

She made a move to grab him in a bear hug – what his bruised ribs probably wouldn't have survived intact – but someone caught her by the waist and held her steadily in place. It was the young man dressed like a courtier, Hywel. Gwen screamed and swore and kicked about, even jabbed him viciously in the ribs with an elbow, but the young man just held her with an amused grin, making Ianto revise his first impression of him. He knew from personal experience how feisty Gwen could be if she didn't get her way. If that young man could efficiently immobilize her without breaking a sweat, he must have been stronger than his lithe shape indicated. A _lot_ stronger.

Cuhelyn, the one-armed came in after them and said something to Hywel. Hywel nodded and sent the servants to fetch something with a simple nod, making Ianto wonder whether this truly was some re-enactment game. He began to seriously doubt it. These blokes seemed to take the whole thing too seriously. No, no seriously; both Hywel and Cuhelyn appeared fairly amused about Gwen's antics. But this… this _medieval_ behaviour seemed to come too naturally to them to be merely role-playing

The house, too, no longer seemed to be some exhibition relic. It was _old_, stained in some places and had a _used_ look to it. Like a place that had seen generations grow up and die under its roof. The tents, the clothes, the horses, the horse-gear… all seemed way too genuine and well-worn to be mere costumes or tools in a game.

Therefore, the only logical explanation could be that they had indeed landed in the past, courtesy of the Rift. Or the explosion. Or the combination of the two. Now if he could only figure out _when_!

But he felt too exhausted to think straight right now. The relative safety of the house, the hurting that appeared to spread through every cell of his body by now, and the concussion ganged up on him to knock him out. Even Gwen's continuing screams seemed to come from far, far away, although he wondered briefly how she'd be able to cope with the ugly truth…

"Quickly!" said Hywel ab Owain, letting go of the shrieking wench and catching the young man as he was starting to fall. "Prepare his bedding; he's passing out on us again. And someone fetch that old monk with his herbal remedies!"

* * *

><p>Brother Cadfael and Brother Mark were ready to go. Their errand to Landelwy and Bangor had come to a successful end, and they'd had more adventures on the way than bargained for, including battles, captivity and the murder of a travelling companion. All they wanted was to go home: Cadfael to Shrewsbury Abbey and Mark to the house of Bishop de Clinton in Lichfield, where he was currently the youngest deacon, on his way to full priesthood. As they both travelled light, they did not have much packing to do, and were prepared to set off in the next morning.<p>

They were about to pray _None_ together when a young serving boy burst into the tent in which they had been given shelter for the night, looking excited and slightly mortified in equal measure.

"Brother Cadfael, would you come to the farmhouse?" he asked. "Cuhelyn has brought in a wounded man – and such a strange one not even Old Rhodri has seen the like. But he's hurt and keeps passing out. Rhodri says he must have hit his head, hard."

"In that your Old Rhodri is probably right," Cadfael said amiably. "Slow down a bit, child. I shall come with you in a minute; I just need to find my scrip first."

His curiosity piqued at once, he left Brother Mark to his prayers – with a mental note to do penance later – and followed the boy, Bran was his name if he remembered correctly, to the farmhouse that served as temporary infirmary and storage room for Owain's troops. The Prince himself stayed in his tent, as did the nobles of his court, but wounded people and supplies were kept better under a solid roof.

Fortunately, no-one from Owain's men had been seriously wounded. After a quick yet thorough dressing to their wounds, they had insisted on returning to their comrades, and neither Cadfael nor Owain's own leech had seen any reason why they couldn't. Thus the farmhouse was basically empty, save from the strange wench Goronwy had brought in less than an hour earlier – Cadfael had been witness to their spectacular and, above all else, very _loud_ arrival – and the wounded man Cuhelyn had found with her.

Owain's servants had done their usual good job by the time Cadfael reached the single inner chamber of the house. They had made a comfortable enough bedding for the wounded, from several brychans that they had folded and laid at the beaten dirt floor, and someone was already boiling water, knowing that the healer would ask for it.

"Would you need anything else, Brother?" asked Old Rhodri, the Prince's most trusted manservant for twenty and more years.

"Some clean rags if you can provide them," replied Cadfael, "and a bowl in which I can wash them. Other than that, I'll be fine on my own, as long as there's enough hot water to use."

"You'll have everything you need," promised Old Rhodri. "Whatever it is, just ask, and Bran will fetch it for you."

Intrigued, Cadfael looked down at the badly bruised yet well-made body of the young man who, according to Bran, was so strange that not even Old Rhodri had ever seen any-one like him before.

"Where he might have come, I marvel? He's clearly Welsh, his face reveals it, but who's seen a Welshman this tall… and this soft, at his age?"

"Cuhelyn thinks he must be a clerk of some sort," said the old servant.

"That's more likely, "agreed Cadfael. "Look at these hands: they have never wielded a sword or held a plough."

"Nor does his wench look like someone who'd have worked as much as a single day in her whole life," added Old Rhodri with an unfriendly glare in the direction of the oddly-clad woman who was crouching down next to the fire, hugging her knees and muttering angrily under her breath.

"You think she's his wife?" asked Cadfael, dipping the rag Bran had just provided into the warm water and began to wash the blood and the grime off his patient's chest.

He saw with relief that there were no serious injuries. Cuts and bruises, surely, of the kind one would suffer when slipping out and rolling down a hillside, for example, but nothing more dangerous. He carefully patted down the now clean torso, mindful of ribs that might be broken, trying to find out the extent of internal damage by touch. To his relief, he found no broken ribs, though some of them might have been bruised.

"Why would he wed such an old hag?" Old Rhodri was still pondering over Cadfael's question. "She's at least ten years older, scrawny, loud-mouthed – and have you seen her teeth? And he well-made and pleasant to look at… he can do a lot better."

"She might have had a rich dowry, though," pointed out Cadfael. "He might not have a say in it if their parents have arranged the marriage."

Old Rhodri shook his head. "Had she money, she wouldn't roam the country, dressed up like a man. No, there's something truly wrong with her… with both of them, I suppose. How comes that no-one can speak with them? They don't understand either Welsh or English. Hywel even tried French; he speaks the Norman dialect fairly well, but she just looked at him with those big, scared rabbit eyes and began to sob. Goronwy is right: she must be mad."

Cadfael shook his head while taking out the jar with the ointment made of centaury and cleaves and a roll of clean linen from his scrip to dress the young man's wounds.

"That's not certain, my friend. Perhaps she's just foreign and scared. Who wouldn't be, among people they do not know, speaking a language they cannot understand?"

"But how can she not understand either Welsh or English?" wondered Old Rhodri. "She cannot have come from some far-away, foreign land; like the lad, she looks Welsh enough. Yet even if they _had_ come from the other side of the border, they ought to speak at least English; or some French if they were nobly born. Although she doesn't look like some fine lady to me."

"Neither does he look like some lordling; he'd have at least sword calluses in that case," Cadfael finished dressing the wounds and rolled his patient onto his front. The young man's back was in no worse condition than his chest – save from some large, discoloured bruises on the small of his back, where he must have been hit very hard. Fallen, perhaps, from some great height, or thrown against a stone wall with brutal force.

"That doesn't look good," commented Old Rhodri. "If he's damaged his backbone, he's going to be in pain for a long time… and there's little any healer could do for him."

"At the very least I can treat the bruises," replied Cadfael. "As for the rest… we'll have to allow his body to heal itself. He's young and healthy – he has good chances."

He anointed the bruises on the back, too, and then rolled the young man over again, mindful of the possibly injured backbone. Then he turned his attention to the bandaged feet.

"Bran my lad," he said, "bring me a fresh bowl of water and another rag, just to be prepared for the worst. Who knows in which shape this leg is in."

He took a sharp, sturdy little knife from his scrip and prepared to cut the makeshift bandage off the injured foot.

In the next moment, there was an ear-splitting screech, and he was hit by a whirlwind – or so it seemed. The furious attack knocked him off his feet, and he felt small but painfully hard fists hit him rapidly, while the screaming went on and on and on...

* * *

><p>Once again, Ianto came back to consciousness to Gwen's voice. No, to Gwen's <em>screams<em> would have been the proper expression.

"You stupid old git, don't you _dare_ to hurt him!" she was screaming and, by the thudding noise, she was also hitting someone with her fists, while the pitch of her voice was rising steadily, reaching a particularly splitting quality that could have shattered glass. Or someone's already concussed head.

"Gwen," Ianto groaned, "would you shut up? You're killing me with your screeching. Got a concussion, remember?"

The screaming stopped at once. Gwen let go of whomever she was pummelling into the ground and leaned over him anxiously.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't want to… but that priest tried to do something to you with a _knife_! I couldn't just let him..."

"Wait," Ianto interrupted. "What priest?"

Gwen helped him to sit up, very slowly, so that he could take a look around. As far as he could tell, they were still in the farmhouse, and he had been washed and his small wounds cleaned and dressed. The only pain he still felt was in his head and in his lover back. He must have fragmented his vertebrae when touching ground after the explosion. There could be no other explanation.

"Him!" Gwen pointed accusingly at a short, squarely-built, grizzled man in a rough, rusty black habit. That and his tonsured head clearly marked him as a monk. Gwen's attack must have surprised him, as he was looking at them with round, shocked brown eyes. He had indeed a knife in one hand, had even cut himself under Gwen's onslaught, and seemed utterly mystified what might have caused Gwen's ferocious reaction.

"Gwen," Ianto murmured. "I think you overreacted. This old guy must be their herbalist or whatever. I don't believe he tried to harm me."

"But… but the knife…"

"Oh, yes, the knife, sure," Ianto held out his hand and said in Welsh, slowly, carefully forming every word. "Brother, may I have the knife?"

The old monk looked at him in puzzlement but seemed to guess what he wanted, because he surrendered the knife. Ianto took it, cut the tie with which the bandage had been fastened, and handed the knife back to its owner.

"Thank you," he said in Welsh.

The old monk suddenly grinned, the laughing lines around his eyes and the twinkling of said eyes showing him ten years younger at once, and said something along the lines of _don't mention it_, by the tone of his voice. Then he pointed at himself and said, slowly and carefully forming the words as Ianto had done before.

"Cadfael," which was most likely his name. "Cadfael ab Meilyr ab Rhys."

Yes, clearly his name, given in the old manner still used sporadically. The act that he said _ab_ instead of _ap_ signalled that he either belonged to a much older time or took this whole role-playing business way too seriously. For his part, Ianto would have bet on the former.

He hesitated for a moment, not quite sure how he should introduce himself; then he decided that _in for a penny, in for a pound_ and pointed at himself.

"Iefan," he said. "Iefan ab Ieuan," then he pointed at Gwen and introduced her, too. "Gwen." He didn't add any father-name, not quite certain yet how he would describe these people their relationship – if they ever got over the language barrier, that is.

The old monk nodded, apparently pleased even by such a small progress in understanding. Gwen, on the other hand, looked at Ianto with a frown.

"Ianto, why didn't you tell him your true name?"

"I did," he explained patiently, "in a form that they can understand. I don't think the concept of shortening a name would be wide-spread in this time; and using an English-sounding surname probably wouldn't be such a good idea."

Gwen shook her head in confusion. "What do you mean? Are you trying to buy into the stupid game of these recreation types? What for? Sooner or later we _will_ find a phone and call for help and get out of this… wherever this is, won't we?"

"I'm afraid that's all wishful thinking," Ianto replied grimly. "You must face the facts, Gwen: we _have_ been displaced in time as well as in space. These guys aren't playing; they are _real_, I think. We don't understand them because the language they speak is several hundred years older than ours. It's that simple… or that complicated, depending on your vantage point."

"No. Nonononono," Gwen shook her head. "That's not right. That _can't_ be right."

"Can't it? Jack could come back more than three thousand years, the Doctor can travel through time at will, but the Rift can't have displaced us in time?" Ianto rolled his eyes. "Get real, Gwen!"

"No, _you _get real!" Gwen snapped. "I know you hit your head, but this is ridiculous! The Doctor has the TARDIS; Jack has his vortex thingy…"

"Vortex _manipulator_," Ianto corrected in mild annoyance. Gwen waved him off.

"Whatever. They both use alien tech to hop time. We had nothing like that on us when the Hub was blown up."

"We had the Rift," Ianto pointed out logically.

"Oh, sure, cos the Rift sends people back to the past all time," Gwen said sarcastically.

Ianto gave her an exasperated glare. "You _have_ seen Flat Holm, haven't you? How can you still deny that the Rift is more than capable of sending people to the strangest places… or times? Or have you forgotten Jonah Bevan?"

To that Gwen had no answer, and now that she had finally shut up, Ianto could hear the respectful silence filling the house. Looking up, he saw that everyone, with the exception of the old monk, had gone down on a bent knee, and a second glance also revealed why.

In the open door, scanning the inside of the house with keen, brilliant blue eyes (so eerily like Jack's that Ianto felt a dull pain in his chest that had _nothing_ to do with his bruised ribs) stood a man who could only be the warlord of this camp. He was very tall for a Welshman, even for one from Ianto's own time, and fair like a Viking chieftain from some old historic movie, with a shrewd blue gaze and a close-trimmed golden beard. He seemed barely forty, in his vigorous prime; the strength of his charismatic personality filling the whole house.

* * *

><p>Owain Gwynedd took in the scene before his eyes with one stern glance; then he looked at Old Rhodri.<p>

"What happened?" he asked in a clipped tone. The dishevelled state of the old monk, an honoured guest under his protection, had not gone unnoticed by him, and he was ready to make his displease very obvious.

"That mad wench Goronwy had brought in attacked the good brother here," summarized Rhodri. He had the gift to cut to the core of any event, no matter how twisted.

"'Twas a misunderstanding," Cadfael said hurriedly. "I wanted to cut the bandages; she saw the knife and thought I'd try to harm her travelling companion. She just wanted to protect him."

"I do not take kindly when my guests are attacked, no matter for what reasons," Owain looked at the sullen wench still being held by two servants. "Have you learned anything about her?"

"Well, her name is apparently Gwen," replied Old Rhodri, "and that of the young man is Iefan… though she called him Ianto. A pet name from his childhood, surely."

"Both good Welsh names, though," said the Prince thoughtfully. "Could they be related in some way? Or even married?"

"If they are, she's clearly used to have her way in all things," answered Cadfael. "I doubt that this young man – or any-one else, for that matter – has ever put her in her place. She has been doubtlessly spoiled, the way late children or, indeed, only children, sometimes are. I do not believe they would be siblings, though. There's no likeness between them, nether in features, nor in colouring."

"That must not mean anything," said Owain. "They could come from different mothers. My own children look different enough, too."

"Perhaps," Cadfael smiled, "but they all show the same grace. Still, I have no hope that we can learn much about these two by their mere looks. Not 'til we find a way to understand them."

"They still haven't shown any knowledge of either Welsh or English?" asked the Prince.

"The young man seems to speak a language that has a vague likeness to southern Welsh," admitted Cadfael, "as it would be spoken in Morgannwg or certain parts of Powys. But whatever dialect it might be, I cannot understand it, despite the familiar sound. He seems to have the same difficulty with our dialect. I believe though that, given enough time, we can learn to understand each other. He seems to have a keen and observant mind."

The Prince nodded in satisfaction. Now, with the Danes gone, they had all the time in the world to figure out the mystery surrounding their peculiar visitors.

"What about her?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the wench, who was darkly muttering under her breath but no longer tried to shake off the servants holding her – which would have been a hopeless thing anyway.

Cadfael shrugged. "They use a different language among themselves; one I've never heard before. Sometimes I think to hear a familiar French word, or a Saxon one, but it always turns out a mere illusion. What do you intend to do with them, my lord?"

It was Owain's turn to shrug. "They cannot stay here, for certain, so we'll take them to Aber for the time being. I'll make the final decision after I've learned more about them. Can the young man be moved?"

"He won't be able to ride to Aber on his own," Cadfael warned promptly. "His backbone is bruised, at the very least, and so are some of his ribs. He also must have hit his head pretty hard, if the big lump on the back of his head is any indication. Riding would make him nauseous and worsen his condition considerably. He needs rest, first and foremost."

"We shall provide him with a litter, then, fastened between two horses," the Prince decided. "Brother, would there be any way to borrow you from your cloister for a little longer? My leech is good with battle wounds, but I would sleep better if you took care for my unexpected guest for a while yet. At least 'til we'd come to some kind of understanding."

Cadfael considered the request for a moment, then he nodded.

"I believe it's doable," he said. "Brother Mark is due to set off for home tomorrow. If you send a courier with him to see him home safely, he can also take a letter to Shrewsbury Abbey. Father Abbot is a reasonable man who values the peace between Gwynedd and Shropshire highly. He will give his consent."

"Very good," said the Prince in the same clipped tone as before. "See to the wounds of our guest here. Rhodri, he'll need some clothes, too, as his have been torn to shreds."

"That will be not easy, my lord," said the old servant. "I do not believe we have spares for a man of his height."

Owain gave the semi-naked patient a measuring look.

"I'll survive if I keep on the clothes I'm wearing now," he decided. "He's about my height, and has the breadth to fill out my spares. Once we're back in Aber, we can have some clothes made for him."

"As you wish, my lord," Old Rhodri glanced at the woman. "What about her?"

"She's unhurt, I see," replied Owain. "Let her keep her strange garb. At home, we'll find something for her that matches her status – whatever it is."

* * *

><p>Gwen didn't like the dismissive look the big, golden-haired warrior gave her a bit. Who did this bloke think he was? The Prince of Wales?<p>

"Actually, I think that is exactly what he is," Ianto said quietly, while the old monk carefully removed the bandage from his foot, washed it clean and inspected the damage. It wasn't a pretty sight. The sole of his foot was covered in scratches and cuts. There was even a bruise here and there.

"What do you mean?" Gwen demanded, not realizing that she had spoken her thought aloud.

"I mean, he _is_ the Prince of Wales," Ianto winced as the old monk pulled out a few thorns that he could see by the light of the fire. "Or rather _one_ Prince of Wales. If I'm right, we've landed in the middle of the twelfth century, and this man is no lesser person that Owain Gwynedd, king of the kingdom of Gwynedd in all but title."

"But… but you can't be right!" Gwen insisted, watching with wide, shocked eyes the old monk anoint Ianto's foot, then wrap it in fresh bandages, tying it surely. "That can't be. It just can't. We can't have gotten nine hundred years in the past! That would mean I could never go home!"

"Neither can I," Ianto pointed out dryly, "and do you hear _me_ whine about it?"

"That's easy for you to say!" she snapped. "You've got no-one to return to! You've got no _life_ to return to! But me… I've got Rhys waiting for me and our baby, and…"

She trailed off, because Ianto had gone rigid and became absolutely white, and there was such a rage in his normally patiently amused blue eyes that for a moment she thought he would hit her. Or strangle her. It was a relief that he could barely move around on his own… although she didn't understand what his problem was, really. His life _had been_ Torchwood, hadn't it? And Torchwood was gone now, the Hub blown to smithereens, and Jack…

Oh God, Jack!

The memory of Jack made her break down in tears. Would Jack be able to come back to life again, after having been torn to shreds by that bomb? Would he be able to find them? To find _her_? To take her home before she would grow bigger than that space whale from pregnancy?

Ianto sighed and stopped himself in the last moment before shaking his head. The concussion and the accompanying nausea were rapidly breaking him out of the habit. He felt tired and heartbroken and not strong enough to deal with Gwen's shit right now. He turned to the golden-haired Prince instead, who was watching their interaction with narrowed eyes, clearly not liking what he saw.

"What is to become of us, my lord?" he asked in Welsh, trying to make a more or less sane impression. _One _of them had to.

The man who must have been the Prince of Gwynedd tilted his head to the side and answered something in that not-quite-Welsh all the others were using. Consequently, Ianto didn't understand him. The only world he could figure out was the name of _Abergwyngregyn_ – but that was more than enough.

They were going to Aber! Situated at the mouth of the River Rhaeadr-fawr, four miles east of Bangor, just a small village about half-a-mile from the coast in Ianto's own time; in the century, however, in which the Rift had sent them, Owain Gwynedd's _llys_. The royal seat of the commote of Allechwedd Uchaf and the favourite residence of the Princes of Gwynedd! For near seventy years the centre of true Welsh power and the source of resistance against the Norman conquerors. Ianto's head, already muddled by the concussion, reeled from the perspective.

Seeing that Ianto had at least understood their destination, the Prince held up one finger, then put his hands together and laid his face on them, closing his eyes, signalling sleep, and finally mimicked waking up and raiding off. The message was clear enough: they would sleep here tonight, and then leave in the morning for Aber.

It was fine with Ianto, really. Whatever Aber might look like in the twelfth century, it could only be better than a war camp. He just hoped that the long ride would not kill him halfway there.

~TBC~


	4. Chapter 4: The Way to Aber

**Title: ****Lost in the Past**

**Author:** Soledad

**Warning:** not for Gwen-fans. None of my stories are.

**Author's notes:** I must admit that I'm not making fun of Gwen in the first part. Well, not entirely. I've encountered such places – at least similar ones – in both France and Romania, and still have the nightmares.

According to my research, _llymru_ is simply oats steeped in water, and then cooked until they become solid, usually eaten with buttermilk. I'm sure Gwen appreciated the taste.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four – The Way to Aber<strong>

While Ianto spent the night in not too much discomfort, due to whatever that old hippy herbalist who was dressed up as a monk had given him for the pain, Gwen Cooper was one unhappy woman. She had been just woken up at what must have been the worst night's sleep she had ever had, and that in some ungodly hour. It was still barely dawning in the outside. Did these blokes never sleep? Or had they subscribed to the pre-industrial custom of working from daybreak to sunset?

She felt horrible. Absolutely horrible. There had been no bed, just some woollen blankets thrown onto the beaten dirt floor to sleep on, and the room had been full of smoke. As a result, her back was killing her; in fact, she ached all over. Her head was throbbing and felt as if it had been full of wet cotton; and her eyes teared up as soon as she had opened them. Her mouth was dry and tasted of old carpets, and she had not brushed her teeth for… well, ever since they had landed in the middle of these re-enacting lunatics.

She reached a hand to her hair – her best feature, the one people always admired – and groaned in despair. Her usually so great hair was matted; no doubt full of dirt, perhaps even lice, from those filthy blankets. She sighed, her tears flowing freely now. This was dreadful, just dreadful. She tried to run her fingers through her hair but gave up after the first attempt as completely pointless. She just smoothed it down as best as she could and left it at that, grateful that none of her friends would see her in such a state. Carrie, Trina and Megan would be shocked, absolutely shocked, could they see her now!

Right after that, she realized a new problem. She _needed_. Desperately. And she had no clue where these guys had hidden the loo. _If_ they had one. Perhaps they just faced the next best tree. They were all blokes, after all, with a deeply unfair advantage in that area.

As in direct contradiction to her thoughts, a serving wench walked into the house in that very moment, carrying a copper washing bowl and a jug of water. A short, squat, curly-haired woman, with a round, freckled face and merry, dark eyes. The sleeves of her drab homespun dress were rolled up, revealing impressively strong forearms. She simply placed bowl and jug onto the floor; then she left, only to return with a large, folded place of rough linen, a bar of soap, a brush and a comb. She handed all these utensils to Gwen and indicated the washing bowl.

"Terrific," Gwen muttered. "These people are all mad. _This_ is their idea of a proper bath? Historic authenticity is nice and good, but must they really go so far?"

Besides, she still _needed_. And if she did not do something about it _now_, things could become really, really embarrassing. On the previous day, she was too upset and dehydrated and exhausted to even think about such things, but now…

She tugged on the woman's skirt. "Please," she began, hating the begging tone of her own voice. "Please, I _must_…. I need to go to the loo…" she pressed her knees together to demonstrate the problem.

For a moment, the woman just looked at her, bewildered. Then she realized what Gwen wanted, and she beckoned her with a conspiratory grin. Gwen followed her with renewed hope. They went across the courtyard and beyond the stables, on the opposite side of the house from where the tents were being dismantled. A little further behind the stables a wooden door was cut into the turf. The woman grinned and pointed at the door.

The stench coming from there was unbelievable – dead Weevil would have been fragrant in comparison – but it also made clear that Gwen had been brought to the exact place where she had wanted to go. She gagged; but she had no other choice. It was either this, or squatting down in full sight of a small army of barking mad blokes who believed they were medieval warriors.

She glanced back, but the woman was already halfway across the courtyard, heading back to the farmhouse, rolling her wide hips in a manner that made the grooms at the stables whistle in appreciation. One of them even caught her around the waist and playfully grabbed her breast. She gave him a big clout upside the head and went on, laughing.

Gwen groaned. She had clearly ended up in a madhouse. She would have to watch her back carefully, if this was the accepted way for men to treat women.

But first she had to solve her current problem… and, as Jack would have said, there was no other way but through. She gritted her teeth, held her breath and opened the wooden door.

She very nearly closed it again. She had thought the stench was bad outside? Well, it was a hundred times worse inside. Were these people bloody insane? What had historic authenticity to do with having – or, in this case, rather _not_ having – proper toilets? God, they had to be ridden with diseases! And she had just slept among them, under their filthy blankets! She shuddered and dared a tentative step inside.

She came into a small, windowless chamber, dug into the hillside. Its floor was generously strewn with straw and seemed surprisingly clean, considering… well, just about _everything_ she'd seen here so far. At the opposite end, however, was a hole. A large hole in the floor… and that was it, basically. There were marks in the earth on both sides of it, clearly marking the place where people had stood or squatted before her; and a large pile of leaves, both green and dry.

She was supposed to use _that_? Instead of proper toilet paper? No way in seven hells!

But there was no other choice. The sharp pain in her belly intensified, warning her that she really needed to do something about her… erm… _needs_ now. She could feel her tears start again. This was one of the worst experiences of her life, and considering what she had seen during her two years with Torchwood already, that was saying a lot! Even such a dank place as the Hub had basic sanitary facilities.

There was no help, though. Bracing herself for the vile things that were yet to come, Gwen Cooper made another valiant step towards the hole.

* * *

><p>When she returned to the house, the water in the jug was still reasonably warm, even though she nearly spilled it all, not having expected the whole thing to be so <em>heavy<em>. Nonetheless, she managed to hit the copper bowl with the water and was luxuriating in the chance to have at least a quick wash.

Granted, the soap did not lather and left some sort of disgusting, slimy layer on her skin. She rubbed it away with the brush, acquiring livid pink scratches in the process; marks that she had _not_ had before. The towel was a square piece of rough, undyed linen that did not really absorb water; plus it scratched like sandpaper. But she managed to dry herself… more or less. At least now she was reasonably clean.

She was so not looking forward to get back into her torn, stained and smelly clothes; but since she had no spares with her, she could not avoid it. At least she still _had_ clothes, unlike Ianto. She dressed in a hurry and attacked her hair. She hadn't had a chance to wash it, and she seriously doubted that these loonies would have either shampoo or conditioner here. Or a toothbrush. Or toothpaste. Or – oh, God! – deodorant. At least the comb worked well enough.

She had just brought herself into some semblance of order when the woman from before stuck her curly head into the doorway and said something. Gwen scowled.

"I don't understand you, you stupid cow!"

The woman shrugged and beckoned her. Still resentful, Gwen followed her out of the house, and to the awning where breakfast was being distributed: some sort of _llymru_, served with weak ale. It was disgusting; she could barely force it down her throat, but she had to eat _something_. And, of course, there was no hope to brush her teeth afterwards and so wash the vile taste out of her mouth.

After breakfast, she watched as Ianto was laid onto a litter, which then got fastened between two horses. She wanted to go to him – come to think, she had not even realized before that he no longer was in the house – but for some reason, these reconstruction fanatics wouldn't let her get close. Instead, the old servant the others called Rhodri (which was a common enough name, proving clearly that Ianto was insane and they hadn't landed in the past) grabbed her at the elbow and led her to the stables.

"Trefor!" he called out sharply.

A lean, sinewy, bearded man in his early thirties came to answer the call; probably one of the grooms, if his drab brown clothes were any indication. The old servant told him something, at which the guy called Trefor looked at Gwen with obvious disgust. He even tried to protest, if the tone of his voice was any indication, but the older man repeated what sounded like orders, mentioning the name _Owain_, and so Trefor shrugged and obviously accepted the inevitable.

He turned to Gwen and said something unintelligible. Gwen glared at him with a scowl. Could these freaks not understand that she didn't speak their gibberish? Why did they expect _everyone_ to adapt to their stupid games? She shrugged and shook her head. Trefor rolled his eyes. He went back into the stable, then reappeared again, leading a scruff, dun-coloured little horse on reins. He gestured at the saddle, clearly expecting Gwen to climb into it – which she couldn't do on her own. So she shrugged again and shook her head.

The man scowled impatiently, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her onto the horse. Then he swung into the saddle to sit in front of her and tapped the beast's flank with his foot and set it off to join the Prince's gathering household. Gwen wobbled behind him, trying to keep her balance and trying very hard _not_ to touch him at the same time, because, frankly, he stank. Absolutely reeked of… she didn't know of _what_ exactly, but the unwashed odour, mixed with the smell of horse, was gut-wrenching.

"Oh, God!" she whispered. "Someone's _so_ going to die for this!"

They joined the Prince's household, consisting mostly of couriers on their small, agile horses and a few servants who had done the cooking for the troops, aside from the ones around the Prince's person. The only other women in the entire camp seemed to be the ones sitting on a wain. One was the wench who had showed Gwen the loo earlier (and seemed to be very _friendly_ with the grooms). Her name was apparently Earonn.

The other woman was a head taller and twice Earonn's girth (which was considerably on its own), called Dylis. She seemed older, her russet hair twisted into a neat coil on the back of her head and gathered in a dark green velvet bonnet, trimmed with gold embroidery; her pale blue eyes spoke of Northern origins. She must have had some authority here, because the men were oddly deferential towards her. Perhaps she was sponsoring their stupid game or whatnot; her dress, made of fine wool, spoke of wealth.

She was clearly meant to travel on the wain, together with Earonn, as Gwen realized enviously. Sure, a horse's back would probably have broken under her weight, but why had these blokes taken her with them in the first place? Certainly not for her looks – who in their right mind would want to have someone like _that_ around? She must have pumped a lot of money into their fake medieval fantasy. _Especially_ as she could afford the relative comfort of a wain, the canvas of which would protect her from both harsh sunshine and rain, while everyone else had to travel on horseback.

Gwen kept looking at the wain mournfully, but no-one seemed to notice. She had to accept the only means of transportation offered to her: sitting behind her stinking companion. God, she _hated_ it! Hated the stupid horse, hated the unwashed bloke before her, this whole place, these lunatics who fancied themselves medieval warriors!

Finally, the mounted men formed some sort of train – the actual pattern eluded Gwen, as neither she, nor Rhys had ever been particularly fond of medieval war games, although the sheer _numbers_ of them were mind-boggling – to set off for… well wherever they were about to go. Who would have thought that there were so many lunatics in Wales alone? Or _were_ they making a film after all, and about to move to a different location?

As they followed what was probably some sort of support train, the bloke named Trefor reached back, grabbed her arm and pulled it forward, wrapping it around his waist. Gwen pulled her arm away immediately.

"Oi, mate!" she snapped. "Whaddaya think you're playing here? If you believe I'm getting fresh with you, you're bonkers!"

A memory surfaced unexpectedly, and she froze. Was this the same bloke who had groped Earonn's boobs just an hour ago? Was he? Did he probably think he could do the same to Gwen Cooper? She shuddered. Ewwwww! Well, if _that_ was what he was thinking, he had another thing coming.

The bloke shrugged and muttered something that didn't sound friendly. As they reached a dirt track, he spurred the horse into a trot to catch up with the other grooms and servants. Gwen was bouncing up and down uncomfortably behind him. This was _not_ helping her head – and it made her arse hurt. And other parts of her anatomy she didn't even want to think of right now.

"Oi!" she yelled again. "Does this bloody animal have to… to _jump_ so much? Can't it just, you know, _walk_?"

The man didn't answer. He simply spurred the horse into a canter, as they were already behind the train. As the horse sprang forward, Gwen screeched and started sliding away to one side. The man muttered and oath (that she thankfully didn't understand) and reached back instinctively to stop her from falling off. Also steered by pure survival instinct, Gwen grabbed him round the waist with both arms.

When she realized what she'd done, she nearly fell off the horse anyway. But what was done was done, and since she couldn't change it, she could as well hold on, couldn't she? So she did hold on, clinging on for dear life, screwing her eyes tightly shut (wishing she could do the same with her nose), as she pressed her face into his back. God, he stank. More than any living man should have been allowed to stink, even if they had the delusion of living in the twelfth century.

Well, she didn't have any other option than hold on, right now. They were out in the wilds. But sooner or later, they _had_ to hit a proper road. And as soon as she saw anyone, or a car coming by, she was jumping off this ugly beast and running like the wind. It could only be a matter of time now. The wild areas of Wales couldn't be _that_ big, could they? There ought to be a town somewhere in reach, soon.

The thought that she had no idea where to find Ianto in this crowd didn't even occur to her. Or why they had been separated. She just wanted to go home.

* * *

><p>Riding after the support train as part of the Prince's <em>teulu<em>, his household guard, Cuhelyn ab Einion watched the strange wench with growing suspicion. What, by the holy bones of Saint Gwenfredi, _was_ she? Where had she and her companion come from? Not only did she wear the oddest clothing, she was also clearly unused to horses. She didn't even know that you were supposed to hold onto the rider behind whom you were riding pillion. Had she always travelled on foot? Or in a carriage? Or perchance on a litter?

Well, she seemed to have understood the need to hold on, at least. But did she have to press herself against Trefor's back so shamelessly? 'Twas embarrassing – not to mention that she was up for an unpleasant surprise, should Trefor understand her behaviour as an invitation. Was she a slattern by nature or simply mad?

And Cuhelyn had not liked the belittling looks she'd given the Lady Dylis before they would set off. The lady might not have been the prettiest woman in Gwynedd, but she was the half-sister of the Prince, for God's sake! Born by a captured Danish noblewoman (which explained her size and her colouring), she had been acknowledged by the late Prince Gruffudd as one of his own and had acted as Owain's chatelaine since they had both come of age. She was the most respected, most powerful woman in Aber, seconded only by the Lady Gwladus, the Prince's own wife, and this filthy madwoman dared to look at her like _that_? People had been flogged within an inch of their lives for lesser offences!

Perhaps Goronwy had been right, after all. Perhaps she _was_ mad, plain and simple. But even so, for the time being, she was considered a guest of the Prince; somebody ought to keep an eye on her. Cuhelyn spurred his horse into a fast canter to catch up with the wain and discuss the problem with the lady and his maid.

* * *

><p>"Why should we care what happens to the foolish wench?" asked Earonn with a shrug when he'd broached the topic to them.<p>

"Because the Prince wants to know who she is – who both of them are – and what they're doing here," replied Cuhelyn. "She might be mad, but I do not believe she was a serving wench of any kind. Have you seen her hands? They're soft and white; she has never done any hard labour, I suppose."

"But why would she walk across foreign land in men's clothes?" asked the Lady Dylis, who'd been listening to them thoughtfully.

Cuhelyn shrugged. "She might be the spoiled daughter of some lesser lord or wealthy merchant, running away from an unwanted marriage. Or their home might have been attacked and she fled, running for her life. In either case, she seems to have no idea how to behave to keep herself safe."

"Still, Owain would be most displeased, should she get… _spoiled_ in any way," commented the Lady Dylis.

"Why would Old Rhodri order Trefor, of all people, to ride with her?" wondered Earonn. "Every-one knows he can't keep his grubby paws from any wench that comes within his reach."

"True, but his little mare is of good disposition and has a very smooth gait," said the Lady Dylis. "The easiest mount for someone who is unused to horses."

"That she doubtlessly is," agreed Cuhelyn. "I fear, though, that Trefor would see her odd behaviour as willingness to dally with him. And she could hardly make him understand that she does not."

"Moreover if he's full of ale," added Earonn grimly. "Which is the reason why I shan't accept his suit. He's a good, hard-working man, but he loves his ale too much."

"I'd take her into the wain, had we not Owain's war purse and other valuables here," said the Lady Dylis. "For all that we know of her, she might be a thief; we cannot take that risk. I fear, Cuhelyn, that I may have to ask _you_ to ride with her for the rest of the way."

"_Me?_" Cuhelyn protested in dismay. "Why me?"

The Lady Dylis gave him a piercing look. For all her plain looks, she was a shrewd and observant woman, and she looked through most disguises with an almost frightening ease.

"If she truly behaves like a slattern, whether because she actually _is_ one, or out of sheer foolishness, we both know that you're the only man of whom she will be safe," she said simply.

Cuhelyn knew that the lady was right, of course. He did not have to _like_ it, though – and he certainly did not. The mere thought of the filthy and smelly clothes of that mad wench made him shudder. The idea of getting close and personal with her made him almost sick.

"The things I do to serve my Prince," he muttered unhappily.

The Lady Dylis patted his maimed arm encouragingly. That was one of the things he loved in her: that she would touch his stump without disgust, as if it were a healthy limb. It made him feel whole again.

"I make sure he'll know what he owes you," she said. "See that you send Trefor to me during the first break. I'll deal with him."

"He'll probably be glad to get rid of her, unless he's _very_ drunk," muttered Cuhelyn. "And so will I."

But there was no help, and he knew it. He'd have to ride with the mad wench till they reached Aber. He'd probably have to burn his clothes afterwards to get rid of the stench. Still, he'd have to do this. Prince Owain needed answers, and to get them, he needed both his… _guests_ alive and unharmed.

* * *

><p>If someone had asked Ianto afterwards how long it had taken them to reach Aber, he could not have answered. The journey seemed endless, moreover as he could not see much of the changing landscape from his litter. Plus, he was in constant pain from his lower back. Travelling across uneven ground was not a comfortable thing for someone with fractured vertebrae, not even in a litter. So, most of the time he just lay there, with his eyes tightly shut, as the sunlight only made his headaches worse.<p>

The old monk – Brother Cadfael – did for him what he could. Ianto supposed that he had been given something to dull the pain. He wasn't really sure what people used in the Middle Ages – poppy syrup perhaps? Whatever it was, it kept him in a somewhat hazy state, so that the pain wasn't all too bad. He could hold out during the day with such help. The nights were worse. He could barely sleep due to the soreness and the stiffness of his limbs from the long ride in the litter. But the old monk always found ways to ease his discomfort, and so he managed.

Of Gwen he didn't see much during the whole of the journey. He sometimes could hear her muttering and cursing from behind them, where she was watched by the servants, but they rarely let her close him, as he was travelling with the young courtier named Hywel and Brother Cadfael. From time to time he caught a glimpse of her, riding pillion behind a roughly clad, bearded groom, with an unhappy face, holding on for dear life; and later behind the one-armed warrior, Cuhelyn. But they had barely spoken to each other all way long, and in his clear moments Ianto wondered whether they were kept apart, so that they wouldn't be able to agree on a common story, should that have been their intention.

The story was something that concerned Ianto deeply. He _did_ know a lot about the history of Cardiff and its surroundings – again, due to his maternal grandparents – but not quite so far back. And having a photographic memory didn't do much good if one had a head injury. In fact, it made everything worse. He had only tried once to activate his studies concerning local history; it had proved a _very_ bad idea. After losing what little he could eat on that day, he decided _not_ to do it again until he would get better. _Much_ better.

What he had managed to dig out was little enough. He knew that at his period the Normans had conquered England, but large areas of Wales were still under the control of the naïve Welsh Princes and lords. Owain Gwynedd was one of those, perhaps the greatest of all, rivalled only the Prince of Deheubarth and the Lord of Powys. Parts of the old Welsh kingdom of Morgannwg (which was to become Glamorgan in Ianto's own time) had fallen to the Normans who also held Cardiff Castle. Only the Lord Ifor ap Meurig, also known as Ifor Bach (meaning Ivor the Short), held land still in Shenghenydd: the upland area bounded by Brecknock to the north, between the River Taff and the Rhymney River and abutting Cefu Onn in the south.

And even this little knowledge of his was restricted to the Cardiff area, gained for the specific purpose to entertain tourists who had happened to find their way to Torchwood's little cover shop. He knew absolutely nothing about the history of Gwynedd, and as good as nothing about the _person_ of Owain Gwynedd. No more than the generalities he had been taught in history lessons while at school, that is.

This was _not_ a very promising outlook. Ianto dreaded the moment in which they would come to a level of understanding that would enable their hosts to ask questions. Because he had no illusions about Gwen knowing any more about this particular place and area than he did. Even if she would be willing to accept their situation for what it truly was – which she clearly and empathically was _not_.

* * *

><p>Gwen for her part was not particularly relieved by the change of riding companions. Granted, the one-armed man perhaps stank a little less than that bearded bloke Trefor, but the sight of the maimed arm filled her with revulsion. For God's sake, why would someone refuse to wear an artificial limb in the twenty-first century? Just to show off that silver bracelet? All right, it <em>was<em> a pretty piece of work, but not worth remaining handicapped when a mechanical arm would be so much more useful. God, these people were really loonies!

Even worse than the arm stump were the man's eyes. Very black, very intense eyes, focussed on distance, that seemed to look right _through_ what lay before their icy glare, be it people or things, rather than _at_ them. They made Gwen feel like a dissected insect under a microscope, and she hated the feeling.

She couldn't understand why these re-enactment guys would need a one-armed bloke among them. He couldn't even fight, could he? Assuming that they did those sword stunts that always seemed so fake and ridiculous on film. Yeah, perhaps they _were_ a film crew, after all, and the maimed character someone the viewers were meant to feel sorry for and identify with. Fat chance! He was way too unfriendly for _that_!

Nah, the mere idea of a one-armed warrior as a character was ridiculous. Perhaps he had bought his way into the production, just like that enormously fat woman. His clothes were much finer than those of the extras playing the common soldiers, and that silver bracelet, assuming that it _was_ silver, must have cost him a pretty penny. She had to admit that he was a good-looking bloke, too; and he must have been frigging strong. He had hauled Ianto to his feet like… like a puppet. Or a rag doll. Still, a cripple in an historic film? It _was_ ridiculous. And that after they had gone such lengths for historic authenticity! Well apparently moneys could beat all reasonable arguments.

Somewhat later, the horse slowed down, and Gwen sighed in relief. Apparently, today they would make their night camp earlier, which was nice. Her arse (and assorted parts) were terribly sore, she hadn't had the chance to wash properly for _days_, and her thighs were a single, huge cramp from the desperate attempts to stay on the horse. Right now, she didn't even mind the stench. Or the filthy blankets. She just wanted to _sleep_!

They didn't stop entirely, however. Looking out from behind the one-armed man's back, she got a glimpse of a high stockade not too far before them. They were currently trotting alongside it. Clearly, they had reached their destination. She just prayed it would be a proper town, not some ridiculous set again.

Soon enough, they came to a huge gate comprising of two large wooden doors. One of the heavy wings was shut, and even from here she could see a smaller door cut into it, barely big for one person to step through it. There was also a square cut in it, roughly at eye level, like a look-out or sentry might use. The other door was open and some grubby-looking men were working on tossing it even further back, so that the horses could fit through.

Gwen felt dizzy with relief. Thank God! Civilisation at last! Other people! A phone! Maybe a car! She could feel tears in her eyes at the thought she might finally be on her way home. This stupid game had gone on long enough.

~TBC~


	5. Chapter 5: First Steps to Understanding

**Title: Lost in the Past**

**Author:** Soledad

**Author's notes:** The infirmary of Aber was inspired by the Hotel-de-Dieu in Beaune, the only medieval hospital that's still more or less intact – nowadays a museum, of course. Granted the actual place is from the 15th century, but still the oldest such institution I could use as a template. Caerdydd is Cardiff, of course, and Ynys Echni is Flat Holm.

Re: short medieval beds. They weren't simply short because the people would have been so much shorter than we are (although they were, as a rule). I'm told that it was a general belief in the Middle Ages that lying flat would be dangerous and unhealthy (which it is, assuming you have bronchitis or pneumonia – voice of experience speaking here), so people slept in a sitting position, propped up with pillows.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five – First Steps Towards Understanding<strong>

And so they finally came, after a for Ianto indefinable length of time, to the high stockade of Owain Gwynedd's royal seat and tref in Aberwyngwessyn, along the coast road between Bangor and Llandudno. It sat in the middle of terraced green hills on one side and the salt marches on the other side; the living heart of the Prince's power. Seeing the shimmer of their lord's colours near, the porters and the guards at the gates had errand boys run inside and cry their coming within.

From the buildings that lined the walls of the great court of Owain's maenol, from the stables and armouries and hall, and the generous array of guest dwellings, the various members of the princely household came joyously to welcome their lord home, emerging victorious after the skirmish with the Danes, with a minimal loss of lives. And to make his visitors welcome.

Grooms ran to receive the horses; squires came with pitchers and horns. Some of them clearly remembered Brother Cadfael, for they greeted him courteously and offered to take his patient not to the infirmary. Cadfael accepted the offer, mostly because he felt tired after the long ride, and wanted to catch his breath ere he would change the dressing of young Iefan's wounds.

The royal seat of Aber was a stellar example of the stability in Gwynedd, provided by the late Prince Gruffudd ap Cynan and – after his death in 1137 – by his son and successor, Owain. No foreign army had been able to cross the River Conwy into Upper Gwynedd for many years, allowing the people of the kingdom to plan for the future without fear that home and harvest would go to the flames by the hand of invaders.

Settlements like Aber had become more permanent, with buildings of stone replacing timber structures. Stone churches in particular had been built across Gwynedd, with so many limewashed that "Gwynedd was bespangled with them as is the firmament with stars", as people liked to say. Prince Gruffudd had built stone churches at all his princely _maenols_, and Aber, the most important of them, was no exception.

Cadfael felt his Welsh heart swell with patriotic pride at the sight. True, the small Norman-style church could not be compared with, say, the Abbey church of Shrewsbury and its magnificence; but it was proof for a settled power – _Welsh_ power! – that had made life safe enough in this _tref_ for a permanent church. And he recognized the compact, neat, well-shaven personage coming out of said church to greet his returning lord. 'Twas Urien, Owain's only English-speaking clerk and chaplain in Aber, as handsomely-dressed and cheerful as ever, even though the dark thornbush of his tonsure was now generously interwoven with grey. Small wonder, though; it must have been seven years since Cadfael had last seen him: at the time when Saint Winifred's bones had been transferred from Gwytherin to Shrewsbury.

The clerk went straight to take the Prince's bridle, in an elegant gesture of dutiful respect, before ceding the charge to a waiting groom. As soon as Owain got out of the saddle, Urien started to talk to him in a low voice, no doubt rendering account of the events happening during his absence. Owain nodded and answered him in the same manner, and Urien's bright, almost bird-like eyes swept over the strangers with interest – and with a look of cheerful recognition over Cadfael himself.

"Brother!" he said in delight, after Owain had left to greet his family. "'Tis good to see you again; I missed you when you first passed through Aber on your way to Bangor. It has been a long time; and now the Prince tells me you've got a most unusual patient with you."

"That I have," allowed Cadfael. "And a pretty riddle he is, for sure. If you can show me where the servants have laid him, I shall tell you the tale… as far as I know it myself. Which isn't very far, I fear."

Urien's eyes brightened even more. "Follow me then, Brother," he said, "for the infirmary is right behind the chapel, where my own rooms are, and I welcome you as my personal guest for the duration of your stay."

* * *

><p>Gwen felt her heart sink when the one-armed bloke made her slide down from the horse- and not too gently, either. This didn't look like any proper town; this was the most convincing location – or the most detailed reconstruction of a genuine, authentic medieval village – that she had ever seen on film. Or in history books. With lots of timber buildings, a tiny stone church on the left, and people walking and running around in fancy dresses.<p>

More lunatics. Or more extras to some very elaborate film set. Or could it perhaps be a new Big Brother special, where the candidates played medieval people and wouldn't dare to speak proper English out of fear that they would be disqualified? That had to be it. Why else if not for a saucy prize would they endure such horrible living conditions? God, there was even an open sewer running down one side of the road; which itself was little more than beaten earth with some cobbles wedged into it.

Not to mention the horse shit all around, which some roughly-clad poor sod was busily sweeping up with a besom and shovelling into a barrow. Oh God, the stench if it! She gagged and pinched her nostrils together.

Her one-armed riding companion said something and pushed her forward, towards the great timber hall facing the gate. Gwen stumbled and cursed under her breath but thought it better to co-operate for the time being.

At the same time, a dark-haired woman wearing the richest clothes Gwen had seen so far – and by her commanding presence most likely playing the role of a queen or some sort of great lady or whatnot – came out of the hall to greet the returning men. For a female lead she wasn't particularly impressive, Gwen found, being of middle height at best and rather stockily built. What was this with only such fat cows getting the roles in this production? Who in their right minds would watch a programme that had not a single pretty girl in it?

Still, at least the clothes of the actress were gorgeous. She wore a long undergarment of some sort, honey-gold with long, tight sleeves. Over that, she had a tunic or whatnot, in dark burgundy red, with flaring skirts and sleeves that gradually widened until they almost swept the floor. Her coiled and braided hair was gathered in a gilded net, and a golden circlet with red gemstones adorned her brow. The tunic was laced with gold ribbons on both sides and embroidered with gold on the hem and the sleeves.

The hot young bloke who'd been mingling in the crowd during the journey, moving from rider to rider and talking to them all the time, now hurried up to the hall to kiss the hand of the woman with obvious respect. Gwen snorted, looking around to find the hidden cameras, but failed. This had to be the most elaborate scheme in the history of the BBC, ever!

Two young boys, perhaps ten and seven years old, followed the woman out, jumping down the steps with several scruffy dogs in tow, not wanting to miss any of the excitement. Gwen shrugged. It was unexpected to see kids here, but it was hardly the first time that the children of the one or other actor would get cameo roles.

After them, however, came another young bloke, one in his early twenties, walking down the steps with authority and confidence, straight to the returning warlord, He was embraced with unmistakable affection. His rich clothing and his features revealed him as the son of the man whom Ianto believed to be Owain Gwynedd. Well, perhaps he _was_ some actor, playing the Prince. But where the father was handsome, the son was stunningly beautiful: tall, fair-skinned and graceful, with curly, flaxen hair and large, flashing blue eyes. Gwen stared at him with open-mouthed awe. She wasn't entirely sure that she wouldn't start drooling within seconds.

A not too friendly push between her shoulder blades reminded her that she wasn't alone; and the scowl on her dark riding companion's face warned her that she should guard her expression better. Even though she couldn't see what the man's problem was. Could he be _jealous_? He couldn't believe that he had any claim on her, just because they had ridden on the same horse all the way, could he?

A frightening thought occurred to her. What if this wasn't a film set, after all? What if this was some weird commune where the women – at least those who had not bought themselves better positions – were considered common property?

_Oh God, Jack_, she thought in growing panic, _please, __do__ something! Find me! Please, come and take me home!_

But she had the dreadful feeling that rescue wouldn't come immediately.

* * *

><p>Princess Gwladus verch Llywarch, daughter of the late Prince of Arwystly and wife to Owain Gwynedd, looked at the strange wench Cuhelyn ab Einion was practically dragging before her royal presence with a displeased frown. She had been warned about the odd visitors through a message dispatched to her by way of a courier, but she had not expected <em>this<em>.

"She certainly looks odd enough," she judged. "And you say you've found her like this? With only these strange clothes on her? Practically _naked_?"

"Yes, my lady," Cuhelyn sighed. "And a rather unpleasant company she was."

"Considering her current state, that comes as no great surprise," said the Princess. "But perhaps she'll look better once we've got her cleaned up properly and provided with more… sensible clothes."

She looked around and spotted one of the maids; a slender young woman returning from the washing spot, carrying a wicker basket full of freshly washed clothes.

"Lowri," said the Princess, "Do you happen to have some old clothes you won't mind parting with too much? You're the only one of similar height and build than this poor wretch here."

The maid nodded. "I have some spares that became too wide for me after giving birth, my lady. The dress is a bit worn and patched, though."

"Oh, I'm certain it will serve just well, compared with what she's wearing _now_," said the Princess dryly. "I'll see that your spares are replaced with new clothes; ones that will fit you better. Bring the old ones to the bathhouse."

"Thank you, my lady!" the maid curtseyed as well as she could while still holding the heavy basket and hurried off, with a new spring in her step. Getting a whole set of new clothes for the ones she could no longer wear was an unexpectedly good exchange.

In the meantime Earonn, the tirewoman of the Lady Dylis, had helped her lady out of the wain and was coming up to the hall, directing the servants who carried the lady's travelling chest. She gave their madwoman a critical look.

"She can do with a little bit of scrubbing and no mistake," she judged. "Seemed mightily unhappy with having but a bowl to wash in the Prince's camp, too. Perchance the luxury of the royal bathhouse will meet her lofty expectations."

"I thought she didn't speak our language," said the Princess, somewhat confused.

"She doesn't," replied Earonn with a snort. "But she's been wrinkling her nose about everything, all the time, like some spoiled princess. I truly marvel what she'd done before she would come here."

"She clearly thinks herself better than other people," added Cuhelyn in disgust. "_And_ she has no shame. The way she's just stared at Prince Rhun – it would have made a tavern whore blush."

"To her defence, Prince Rhun does have that effect on people, though," Earonn pointed out reasonably.

"Perhaps so; but other people are more discreet about it," replied the Princess with a grim smile. "Still, we must give her the benefit of the doubt, I suppose. She's foreign in these parts and might not know our customs; although where she might have come, having neither English nor Welsh, I cannot fathom. What of the young man travelling with her?"

"He tried to speak to us in a tongue that sounds vaguely like Welsh, as it is spoken in the south," explained Cuhelyn, "but we could not understand him. At least we know that his name's Iefan; while the wench is apparently called Gwen."

"Curious," murmured the Princess. "Both have Welsh names and yet they cannot speak Welsh; at least not a dialect known to us. Well, sooner or later we shall find a way of understanding. Let's see to her immediate news first. Earonn, will you take her to the bath-house? She already knows you; people she hasn't met yet might frighten her even more. See that she has a proper bath and washes her hair. Give her some of the soap and bath oils we use here. Lowri will be there with the clothes, soon."

"Of course, my lady," Earonn curtseyed and grabbed the arm of the madwoman, dragging her off without further ceremony.

* * *

><p>Gwen was grateful to be taken away from the scrutinizing eyes of the fake queenlady/whatever. That woman could give her the creeps. Besides, the good-natured Earonn was a known quality. She followed her without resistance to one of the side wings, where they entered a small, almost empty room.

Almost, but not entirely. A wooden tub stood in the middle of it, with a low bench on one side. A bar of soap, a brush, folded towels and small bottles made of cloudy glass were placed on the bench.

Gwen could barely believe her eyes. Could this be a bathroom? She hoped. She prayed.

Before she could have asked any questions, two women came in, carrying two buckets each. They poured what seemed to be cold water into the tub. Gwen shivered – they expected her to bathe in _cold_ water? Even in summer, that was a bit too much authenticity for her taste. Or were these people all some kind of health-freaks and thought they were doing her a _favour_?

Earonn must have guessed her thoughts, cos she laughed and said something that Gwen – of course – could not understand. She wished these loonies would finally give in and speak English like everyone else. Or at least proper Welsh. Her own Welsh was practically nonexistent, but at least she could _understand_ it, to a certain extent.

Fortunately, the two women returned with four more buckets, this time with steaming hot water in them. They emptied the buckets into the tub. Earonn stuck a hand into the water and nodded, clearly satisfied with the temperature. Then she picked up one of the glass bottles and carefully added a few drops of its contents to the bathing water.

The intense scent of roses filled the small chamber. Rose oil! It was rose oil! Gwen nearly swooned with delight.

Earonn sent the other serving wenches away and gestured Gwen to take off her clothes and get into the tub. Gwen could not hurry up enough to do so. Granted, the tub was small, she could only sit in it with slightly bent knees, but the water was nice and warm and smelled of roses. She relaxed into the water, not even noticing when Earonn left the room, taking her clothes away.

After a while, she decided to give the soap a try. It, too, had the scent of roses and lathered slightly better than the "military issue" bar she had been given in camp. Even the brush was somewhat less scratchy. She started to actually enjoy herself.

"Now, this is more like it," she murmured, "But what could the other bottles be for?"

Earonn returned in that very moment, with another bucket. She put it down near the tub, then grabbed Gwen's head and pushed it under the water. Gwen flailed wildly, but to no use. The other woman was simply too strong. Fortunately, she released Gwen after a moment, clearly not intending to kill her in the bathtub – she had just wanted to make her hair wet. Then she poured something that smelled of camomile into her palm and rubbed it into Gwen's hair and scalp. The liquid did not really lather, but it was a pleasant enough feeling. Finally, she rinsed Gwen's hair with the help of the bucket she had brought. It had been a rough yet efficient process.

When they were done, she gestured Gwen to step out of the tub and wrapped her into the larger towel, using the smaller one to dry her hair, as much as it was possible. Then she had Gwen sit on the bench and started to comb out and braid her hair in the local fashion. Gwen _hated_ braids, but found it better not to argue just yet.

While Earonn was still busy with her hair, the young woman from earlier, the one with the basketful of washing, came in. She brought some clothes and laid them out on the bench. Gwen's eyes nearly popped out of her head. She was supposed to wear _that_?

The clothes, clearly meant for someone from the lower class, consisted of a drab brown kirtle made of coarse wool, with tapered sleeves and full skirts; an undershift of undyed linen, a pair of baggy drawers and something akin to stockings, also made of linen and of the same colour as the dress. They looked horrible, simply horrible! But she had no other chance than to put them on, considering that her own clothes had been taken away and she might never get them back.

The mere thought of _that_ made her wish to kill someone.

Earonn helped her to get dressed, which proved to be quite the undertaking. The neckline of the undershift was shaped to mach the dress, but with a smaller opening, so that it could be seen beneath the dress. It was also fitted in the breast, making it a bit uncomfortable without the help of a bra, which seemed to be an unknown piece of clothing here; then it flared outward, ending at the ankle, so that it could fit under the dress.

"Terrific!" Gwen muttered. "Two layers of _long_ skirts. As if the stupid drawers would not make my hips look twice as wide as they actually are. I look like a tramp!"

The worst part were the stockings. They didn't cover her feet, fitting close to the ankle, and reached just over the knee, where they were secured by rolling them down and gartering them above the knee. The shoes going with them weren't so much shoes as rather ankle-high boots made of soft leather, with laces that wound round the ankle. A thicker piece of leather was sewn to the sole, but even so, she was going to feel every pebble, every little lump of soil though them.

She thought mournfully at her nice, sturdy, trendy black leather boots. And her socks. And her underwear. But it seemed that she would have to wear this ugly, rustic stuff until she could get away from this madhouse.

Dressed up like some nameless extra for one of those ridiculous mantle-and-dagger films, she followed the other woman to the small guest rooms lined up alongside the wall of the great court. Earonn opened one of the doors and gestured for her to enter. It was a small, relatively dark chamber, with a bed and a small table as the only furniture, aside from a chest in the corner, meant for any clothes she might have. Earonn pointed at Gwen, then made a sweeping gesture, then pointed at Gwen again and said something unintelligible before leaving.

The meaning was clear enough, though. For the duration of her stay, this dank little hole would be Gwen's room. It was horribly primitive, like everything else around here. But at least it belonged to her alone, and the door had a latch from the inside, so she could bolt it. She did so; then she collapsed on the bed and started sobbing uncontrollably.

Bastards! Who gave them the right to force her to participate in their mad games? She was _so_ going to kill someone! She was Torchwood, not some silly little homemaker who would believe their insane stories, they couldn't do this to her!

* * *

><p>Ianto came to again in a relatively large hall that had a row of canopied beds on both sides, with four beds in each row. He had clearly missed their arrival at Aber, and someone must have washed him while he had slept, cos he felt refreshed and more or less rested. The bed was way too short for him, of course, so they had brought him into a semi-sitting position, but even so, his feet were dangling in the air from the edge of the bed.<p>

He was clad in some sort of long, white linen undertunic that reached to the middle of his calves and was a bit short in the sleeve, but that wasn't really surprising. He was a tall guy, even in twenty-first century terms; the undertunic had probably been made for someone tall for a medieval Welshman but still shorter than he was. He felt a little ridiculous, like in his childhood when he had to wear outgrown clothes, but at least the pain in his lower back had receded a bit.

Looking around, he spotted the old monk, Brother Cadfael, sitting in a chair at his bedside. A hand-copied, leather-bound book, presumably a breviary, lay open on his knees, and he was whispering the words of some prayer under his breath. Ianto strained his ears, trying to recognize the language, and after a moment or so, he succeeded. It was Latin – understandably enough, given the era and the good brother probably being a choir monk. The pronunciation differed a bit from what Ianto had learned in secondary school, little as it had been, but still understandable enough. Dead languages changed remarkably little during the centuries. Considerably less than living ones.

Which meant… Ianto stiffened in his undersized sickbed, excitement rising in him. This meant that if he could dig up his very limited Latin, he might be able to come to at least partial understanding – if only with the members of the clergy. Although members of the royal family ought to have been taught the _lingua franca_ of the era as well. Granted, the Latin Ianto had been taught had not been aimed for the use in the daily matters, but it would be a start. He did not doubt that – given enough time – he would come to understand the local dialect as well, but right now, the most urgent issue was to establish a dialogue, no matter how primitive it might be.

He waited with forced patience until the old monk would finish his prayers; then he cleared his throat and tried to put together a semi-coherent sentence in Latin.

"Brother Cadfael… I greet you… my gratitude for help…"

* * *

><p>"He speaks <em>Latin<em>?" Owain Gwynedd was completely flabbergasted by that piece of news – not that anyone could have blamed him for that.

Cadfael shrugged. "Saying that he _speaks_ it would be a little exaggerated, my lord. He can cobble together a few short, clumsy sentences at best, and he can quote some of the classics, rather than speak of daily matters. His pronunciation is odd, too. But he _can_ make himself understood, with some effort."

"Was he able to tell you anything about himself?" asked Hywel, his curiosity clearly piqued. Cadfael shook his head.

"Not much. His vocabulary is limited at best. He did mention Caerdydd, though, and Ynys Echni, and a castle he did not name. So I suppose he must be working as a clerk for a lord of one of those places. When he tried to speak to us before, his language did remind me of the southern dialect – which makes sense now."

"'Tis still strange that he would not understand us; or we him," said the Prince thoughtfully. "Or that he would speak neither English, nor French. Caerdydd Castle s being held by the Earl of Gloucester right now; or rather by his heir, William FitzRobert. If our young man works for him, how can he _not_ understand the languages spoken in FitzRobert's court?"

"Perhaps he works for Ifor ap Meurig, the Lord of Senghenydd," suggested Hywel. "Or for Morgan ab Owain, the Lord of Caerleon and Gwynllwg."

"Which still won't explain why he doesn't speak proper Welsh," Owain pointed out. "At least not any of the dialects we would understand."

"No, it does not," agreed Cadfael. "It's my hope, though, that with the help of his limited Latin he'll learn our dialect quickly. He seems to have a good head on his shoulders. I'm more concerned about the company he keeps. That woman seems to be of a foul disposition. What are you planning to do with her, my lord?"

"I've left that in the capable hands of my wife," replied Owain with a grin. "She has a tight hold on her own household; she'll find a place for the wench. Right now, she had her put in one of the guest rooms and watched from the distance. We'll see what use she can be later."

"Yes, she ought to be watched, I fear," said Cadfael. "Something isn't quite right about her. I cannot say what it is, but unless she's truly mad, it has to be something sinister. I'd be careful around her if I were you."

"We _are_ careful," replied Owain. "And I'm glad that you've reached at least a limited understanding with young Iefan. I have high hopes that you'll make considerable headway in the near future."

"Not I," Cadfael smiled, a bit regretfully. "I'm afraid 'tis time for me to return home. Father Abbot has been generous with me as it is; but now my patient is on the mend, and Urien will be able to talk to him. He has more Latin than I have, coming late to the cloister. And he's a cheerful person; they'll go along well enough, I deem. I've discussed Iefan's treatment with your leech, my lord. He and Mistress Siân between them will treat the lad properly."

"How long 'til Iefan will be healed?" asked Owain.

Cadfael shrugged. "I expect him to be on his feet within a day or two. But he'll have to be very careful with his back for a while yet. No heavy labour for at least two or three weeks, especially no heavy lifting. But if he's indeed a scribe or a clerk of some sort, he'll be able to write or copy letters for you soon enough."

Owain nodded in understanding. "We shall see that he finds his place within the household, 'til we can send him – both of them – home. I thank you, Brother, for everything that you've done for him; for all of us. As much as I'm loath to see you leave, we all understand that your duties lie elsewhere. If there's anything I can do to reward you, name it and you shall have it."

"Seeing wounds heal and lives saved is my reward," answered Cadfael. "I've but a small request: should you ever learn the tale behind all this, I'd love to hear that tale."

"You will," Owain promised. "That's the least I can do. Godspeed, brother; I hope we'll see each other yet."

* * *

><p>And thus Brother Cadfael dutifully prepared himself for the long way home, leaving behind an unsolved mystery. That irked him very much, but it could not be helped. He was no longer his own master, if ever he had been, and his vow of obedience forced him to return to Shrewsbury as soon as he was no longer needed.<p>

Not that he'd mind much. Even though the _vagus_, the urge to travel and see new things and new places still overcame him from time to time, generally he was content with the settled life in cloister that he had chosen for the autumn of his life almost two decades earlier. In truth, he positively longed for his small hut in the herb garden; longed to pick up his duties again.

He parted with his young patient amiably. Iefan seemed to understand that he had to go and did not try to change his mind. Seeing into those guarded blue eyes for a last time, Cadfael could feel some very old pain in the young man; as if Iefan had gone through a lot and grown used to lose people who meant a great deal to him.

"Take good care of him for me," asked Cadfael the Prince's head clerk. "He'll need a friend in this place that is foreign for him. And once you've come to understand each other better, tell him this: should Owain be unable to send him home, he can always seek me out in Shrewsbury if he does not want to stay here."

"Why shouldn't he be able to go home?" said Urien, a little bewildered. "Caerdydd isn't _that_ far from here; nor is Ynys Echni, even though they're under Norman rule. Once he's grown strong enough, he'll be able to make the journey without much difficulty. Owain won't refuse him the loan of a horse, for sure."

"Of course not," said Cadfael in agreement. "For some reason, though, I don't believe it would be that simple."

"What do you mean?" Urien frowned.

"I'm not sure," replied Cadfael thoughtfully. "I just have the feeling that there's more about young Master Iefan than what the naked eye can see. But I must be off; my work at home is waiting. Send me word, should you learn anything, will you?"

Urien promised to do so, and Cadfael rode off, accompanied by two young men of Owain's own _teulu_ who were to see him safely to the English border.

~TBC~


	6. Chapter 6: Settling Down in the MA

**Lost in the Past**

**Author:** Soledad

**Disclaimer:** the usual: don't own, don't sue! Everything belongs to the almighty BBC and the fabulously talented Ms Ellis Peters. I'm just borrowing everyone for the sake of this story. The historic characters belong to themselves, obviously, but I hope they won't mind featuring here. I tried to treat them with the utmost respect.

My heartfelt thanks to boz4pm, for the details about washing in a river. My personal knowledge doesn't go back any further than the use of washboards. :)

**Warning:** not for Gwen-fans. None of my stories are. Also, medieval sanitary facilities are discussed here, so you might need a strong stomach.

**Author's notes:** Lavatories as the ones described here – only even less private ones – can be seen in the water castle of Chillon, Switzerland. Only that they open directly into Lake Geneva, not into a sewer.

The colours of the fabrics in the sewing room are from the Revival Clothing website, where you can check out 12th century fashion, colour and fabrics. It was a fascinating and bright period, fashion-wise.

Owain Gwynedd's eldest daughter was probably Gwenllian. But as that particular name was so popular in the royal family that it could lead to misunderstandings, I always use Marared for this particular role.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six – Settling Down in the Middle Ages<strong>

Just as Brother Cadfael had foretold, Ianto was back on his feet on the third day after their arrival in Aber. Granted, he had to move around _very_ carefully, in order to mind his bruised ribs and spinal column – the fractured vertebrae in his lower back sent shooting pain through his entire body at every bad move – and his legs started shaking whenever he stood in one place at any length of time. But he was given a cane to support him while walking, and Master Hafin, the Prince's own physician, assured him (via Urien) that things _will_ get better, given enough time.

He just needed to be patient.

He also needed to be useful, more out of personal motivation than because his generous hosts would expect it from him, and he managed to make Urien understand that. Therefore he was given documents to copy, and after a few aborted efforts he figured out how to use the quill properly and how to adapt his all too modern handwriting to the script required by this early century. Urien was pleased with the results, and thus Ianto spent a few hours each day in the sacristy, which also served as the chaplain's office, to copy out old documents that needed to be replaced, to write letters, which Urien dictated him in Latin, meant for the Bishop of St. Asaph and the likes.

The fact that he made himself useful earned him a place at the Prince's table. Not among the court nobles, of course, but he didn't have such lofty ambitions anyway. He was content to sit among the clerks and the lead servants of the princely household – which meant one of the better places, with Urien himself and with the respectable members of the Prince's _teulu_, such as the one-armed Cuhelyn – listening to their talk and trying to recognize any familiar-sounding words. Now that he knew they were actually speaking Welsh, only an ancient version of the northern dialect, it was easier for him to understand a few snatches.

Cuhelyn and Urien between them did their best to help him learn their language. Especially Cuhelyn was very patient, talking to him slowly and using the simplest words and lots of gestures and exaggerated facial expressions to make him understand the meaning of the spoken words. It was quite funny, really; better than an old-fashioned cinema showing slapstick comedies.

While he was struggling forward to a better understanding, however, he didn't forget what _that_ would mean, once he had reached his goal. So he was working on a believable story in his head at the same time; on a story he could present the Prince without ending up executed for practicing witchcraft… or in the local version of the madhouse, assuming the people here had one. It was a delicate walk on the razor's edge; to stay as close to the truth as possible (which always made it easier to lie and to prevent contradictions within the story) and yet translate everything into terms that people of the twelfth century would be able to understand.

It also needed to be a simple enough story that Gwen, who was born as a blabbermouth, wouldn't ruin completely in the moment she'd learned enough from the local dialect to make herself understood. Which was not an easy task to manage, considering what an airhead she could be sometimes. Also, he realized that it wouldn't be easy for him to synchronize the story with Gwen, as he practically hadn't seen her since they had reached Aber. The household of Prince and Princess had a separate life; even at the tables in the Great Hall, men and women sat among themselves. The family of the Prince was the only exception.

He knew he'd have to find a way to speak with Gwen, and soon. As soon as they'd learned enough from this time's language, they _would_ be questioned; and they needed to have the same tale ready. He did have the suspicion that their hosts were keeping them separated for just that reason: to prevent them from synchronizing their stories. Medieval folk or not, these people were not stupid. If bad came to worse, Gwen's big mouth could got them both killed.

He only hoped she'd find the chance to talk to her before _that_ happened. And that she'd actually _listen_, for a change.

* * *

><p>Gwen, in the meantime, was <em>not<em> having a good time. _Miserable_ would have been the best word to describe her state. Granted, the small guest chamber assigned to her did give her _some_ privacy at least, but it was horribly primitive – like some prison cell. It didn't even have a proper wardrobe; she had to put her clothes into that stuffy, iron-bound chest in the corner.

She did get her own clothes back after two days, cleaned even, as far as these maniacs could clean them with their 'genuine medieval' methods; but she was afraid to put them on again. She couldn't know how the bonkers would react to her disturbing their 'medieval' landscape. It was better to play along for a while; until she found out where the cars were hidden – cos surely they hadn't come on horseback half across the country? Or the public phones. Or any other means to escape.

Of course, while the decision was a reasonable one in theory, carrying it out was an entirely different cup of tea.

Life on the set/in medieval reality show was not an easy one. Living conditions in the village were somewhat better than they had been in that so-called military camp, but still primitive enough to turn her stomach upside down. The lavatories, for example, situated in their own small timber building, offered slightly more comfort than the hole in the earth, but were still really bad; and, despite being called privies, they offered very little actual privacy. Basically, they consisted of a long, low stone bench, with wooden seats over each hole, which opened directly into a sewer running below. The individual seats were separated by wooden screens and each cubicle had its own entrance, but one could still hear – and _smell_ – anyone who was using the facilities at the same time; and if one happened to sit on the downstream end, the waste products of all other… erm… _customers_ were running below one's seat.

The mere thought made Gwen want to throw up. Actually, she _did_ throw up the first time she used the privy, but it only meant that she had to clean up after herself.

The fact that they never offered her a bath after the first day only made things worse. After all, washing herself in a bowl could only do so much for hygienics, and bathing in a stream was _not_ her idea of creature comfort, no matter how much the locals seemed to enjoy it. Not even in summer. She dreaded the coming of cold weather well in advance. She _needed_ to get out of here, as soon as possible. She was _so_ not going through any phase of her pregnancy in a fake medieval village, filmed by hidden cameras!

The worst part was that these loonies clearly expected her to indulge in their silly little medieval fantasies and did their best to find her a place where she could be useful. There could be no doubt that she was no longer considered a guest; if she wanted to eat, she had to contribute. Not that the food would have been all that appealing, but she had to eat _something_, or else she would have lost her strength and thus her every chance to escape.

* * *

><p>Earonn seemed to have been chosen as her guide – or her watchdog, depending on your point of view – as she came every morning (and at an ungodly early time, too!) to whisk her away to the one or other workplace to test her skills. Which were, sadly, at large nonexistent for this kind of life.<p>

On the very first day after their arrival, she was taken to the sewing room. It was a relatively small room within the long timber hall that served as the house of the chief honcho/prince/whatever; its windows opening to the south-east, so that it would get as much sunlight as possible, which was necessary for such work that required good eyesight. Stitching certainly did, as she would discover later.

As she entered, she could see that it was a shared workroom, with a long, large table in the centre, and the walls were lined with bolts of fabric. Most of it was the sturdy, undyed linen of which the undershifts were made, or simple brown or black homespun wool. But there were other bolts in rich, jewel-like colours: periwinkle blue, bright forest green, brick red, golden brown, olive green, dark brown, oatmeal, sage and soft gold. All plain colours, though; there were no patterned materials.

There was a large sideboard to the right of the door, with countless small drawers. Some of them were open, revealing buttons of various sizes and colours, made of wood, metal or bone, threads, buckles, ribbons and strings. Several pairs of scissors – each of the size of a garden shear – lay on the central table, which had probably been designed for the cutting of fabric and for stitching together larger pieces of clothing.

_Ianto would just love this place_, Gwen thought, with just a bit of venom. _He was always so bloody proud of his Tad having been a master tailor._

Half a dozen women were already in the room, all seated on stools or at tables, sewing. One of them was embroidering the sleeve of a deep burgundy red overtunic of raw silk with what seemed like gold thread; it was clearly meant for one of the important blokes. The embroideress, too, must have been someone above the common crowd, as she was wearing very fine clothes indeed: a dark green, pendant-sleeved gown, also of raw silk, over a linen undertunic, girdled by a thin belt with golden rosette mount in golden brown, the wide sleeves pinned back with golden fibulas to her shoulders, so that they would not hinder her in her work.

She was also the first truly beautiful woman Gwen had seen among these maniacs so far: in her mid-twenties perhaps, tall and graceful of shape, with a pale, oval face that seemed almost translucent in the frame of her glossy, blue-black hair, coiled in a braid as thick as her wrist and gathered in a gilded net. Her eyes, large and bright under winged black brows, were so dark that her irises seemed almost purple, but the high cheekbones, a firm chin and a resolute mouth spoke of a strong personality.

That she wasn't bare-headed like the rest of the seamstresses, even though her headdress consisted of the gilded net only, also spoke of importance. Despite the difference in colouring, she vaguely reminded Gwen of Martha Jones. At least she made her feel hopelessly inferior, just as Martha always did. She decided that she didn't like the bint at all, no matter who she was.

* * *

><p>Princess Marared ferch Owain, eldest daughter of the Prince of Gwynedd, watched the foreign woman from under half-lowered lashes with detached interest, while stitching away on the new festive tunic of her half-brother, Prince Rhun. She was a strange one, this Gwen person, for certain. Earonn and the other servants had given the ladies of the court chapter and verse about her outrageous behaviour, but the Princess had wanted to see it with her own eyes.<p>

Sure enough, she looked around in the sewing room as if she had never seen a place like this before. She was positively gawking at the two seamstresses who were sewing together the pieces of Lady Dylis' new bliaut, as if she would be staring into the face of the worst horror one could imagine. What was she expecting, that the pieces would grow together on their own? Although, considering the strange garb she had been wearing upon her arrival, not even _that_ would be surprising, Marared decided.

Which reminded her of another needful thing: the wench needed at least another set of clothes. She could not be allowed to walk around in men's garb; less so of such shameless cut that made her seem almost naked. Neither could they, by the looks of her, expect her to sew herself new, more proper clothes.

Fortunately, Lady Dylis always had some ready-made shifts and kirtles for the servants that only needed the finishing touches.

"Blodwen, get me two of the pre-made kirtles," Marared ordered, "And a couple of undershirts, too. We need to fit some clothes for her."

"Which colour?" Blodwen, a plain-looking, middle-aged woman – the best seamstress of the royal court – asked, rising from her stool already.

"Black and light blue will do," Marared replied. "I doubt that she'd be anything but common stock, so no need to waste finer materials on her. And two of the undershifts should be made of sturdy linen, so that she can wear them for working in the gardens or at the washing spot. Bring some chausses and drawers, too; and we'll have to get at least another pair of shoes from the cobblers," she added, looking at Earonn, who nodded in understanding.

Blodwen went to the far end of the workroom, from where a little store room opened, and fetched the requested pieces of clothing. Then she held out the kirtles and undershifts, one by one, to see whether they would fit the foreign wench who was still staring at them with impossibly wide, bulging eyes.

"They should fit," she judged, "although perhaps the skirts will be a tad too long. We should make her try them on."

It took a great deal of pantomime until their… _guest_ finally understood what was expected from her, making Marared wonder whether she was a bit slow-witted or just belligerent by nature. But in the end, she did put on the unfinished clothes in the store room and came back, hitching her skirts so she would not tread on them. Both the undershifts and kirtles fit well enough, but – just as Blodwen had predicted – they were too long.

"We need to shorten the skirts indeed," Marared said, gesturing the Gwen to stand on one of the empty stools.

Misunderstanding the gesture, she sat down promptly. The seamstresses in the workroom burst out in laughter, earning an angry scowl and a muttered oath from her, which they fortunately did not understand. She really did have unpleasant manners. Not even tavern wenches would behave like that in the face of royalty – or anywhere else, for that matter.

Earonn shook her head in exasperation and dragged the foolish woman onto her feet again. Then she climbed onto the stool herself, to show what they wanted. Now realizing what the gesture had meant, Gwen followed suit, albeit scowling and sulking when she lost her balance and needed to be supported – which led to suppressed giggles all around. Even Blodwen had a hard time to hide her grin when she and Earonn folded the bottom of kirtle and shift at the right length, to the ankle bone, and she quickly made a few stitches at the spot to keep the folded material in place and so mark the length. They then repeated the procedure with the rest of the clothes, until they were all properly marked. When everything was done, Earonn pushed Gwen into the store room again to get dressed.

"Shall we leave it to her to finish the clothes for herself?" Blodwen asked.

Marared shook her head. "Not if we'll have to redo the stitching afterwards. I shall keep her here today, to see what she knows of needlework. Lowri is coming in to finish her new kirtle, the one she got in exchange for what this… for what _Gwen_ is now wearing. She can do all the kirtles, and if Gwen shows any skills, I might allow her to finish the undershifts."

* * *

><p>Gwen was fairly shocked when she realized that they expected her to do the hand-stitching thing. The mere thought of hand-stitching all these clothes boggled her mind. Did these poor cows slave over the whole costume department of this stupid show? It was beyond imagination. There was not enough money on planet Earth that she would do <em>that<em>. Especially as she hadn't even sewn back a torn button before.

Only that she had no other choice. _When in Rome_… she muttered, accepting the small wicker basket with sewing utensils that was pushed into her hands. She examined her fingernails woefully. Some of them were already broken, and she didn't doubt that more would meet the same face when she was to deal with such heavy fabrics.

The needles were made of bone and seemed surprisingly fine and delicate, though. It required some well-measured strength to push them through two layers of the coarse linen the undershifts had been made of.

Which meant that she promptly broke the one given her when she tried.

The beautiful woman doing the embroidery rolled her eyes briefly, as if praying for patience, and said something to the woman who had taken Gwen's measures. The woman fetched a piece of thin wool, got another needle and some thread, sat down with Gwen at one of the tables and started teaching her how to sew. She simply took the undershift that needed to be shortened, and while working on it, showed Gwen what to do.

Gwen tried her best to copy the stitch, her brow furrowing in concentration. She didn't want to look totally incompetent in the eyes of these lunatics.

After a few times the woman whom the others called Blodwen let her get on with it, indicating she should finish an entire row of stitches. Then she inspected her work. She clearly wasn't impressed at all. She showed Gwen her own work and laid the two side by side, so that Gwen could see the difference – which was glaringly obvious, to say the least. Gwen scowled.

"Well, I haven't done this all my life, you know," she snapped at the woman who could have been her mother age-wise.

Blodwen seemed even less impressed by her manners – or rather the lack thereof. She simply indicated for her to pick up the piece of wool and keep trying.

They stayed at it all morning.

Around midday Gwen thought her eyes were swimming from staring at the close stitching, and her back was killing her. The results were still rubbish, of course, even though some of her stitches _did_ seem more even and a little straighter. It would be a long way to go until she'd be able to produce something even remotely acceptable – not that she intended to stay here long enough for _that_.

* * *

><p>If she thought she would have her peace in the afternoon, she was sorely disappointed. After the midday meal – which was shockingly frugal, consisting of some thick broth and a piece of bread, eaten in the kitchens among what must have been the serving wenches – Earonn whisked her away again. This time they left the walled court and went down to a little stream that ran within the settlement for a while before disappearing underground well outside the walls and probably continuing on towards the sea.<p>

At one point, a thatched roof bridged the stream – which was quite wide and shallow there – built on wooden pillars that were ranged on either side of the bank. Several large boulders stood out clearly from the water, but they were not flat enough to serve as stepping stones, so Gwen couldn't even guess what purpose they might have. Three wide, flat steps were cut and flagged into both banks, so that one could reach the water easily. Some of the flags, strangely enough, were angled so that they would lean _into_ the water.

It was all very strange, and Gwen didn't have the faintest idea what the hell this place was supposed to be. Not until she spotted the girl whose spare clothes she was currently wearing, that is. Although calling her a _girl_ would have been probably false, she could see that now. While she _did_ have a round, cat-like face, framed by thick black hair, looking at her closer one could see that she must have been in her late twenties, at the very least. Still younger than Gwen, perhaps, but definitely not a child. She wasn't as ugly and plain-looking like the majority of the women here, but she must have lost quite some weight recently, as her clothes were hanging on her as if made for a much bigger person.

She greeted Earonn cheerfully enough and gestured towards the roof, under which several large wicker baskets stood, heaped with obviously dirty clothes, bed linens, towels and the likes. Pennies dropping rapidly, Gwen felt an equal measure of panic and rightful indignation rise in her.

A washing well! Oh God, this was a bloody washing well, and they obviously expected her to help them wash all those clothes! _By_ _hand_!

"You have to be kidding me!" she screamed at the two women who stared at her in shocked surprise. "You wanna me to wash someone else's bloody clothes in a sodding _river_? In the twenty-first century? Oh, c'mon, people, historic authenticity is fine, but this is just bloody ridiculous!"

Earonn was the first to recover from her shock. She gave Gwen a look of extreme annoyance, then she deliberately turned her back, said something to the other woman, calling her Lowri, and simply ignored Gwen for the rest of the afternoon. The two of them took off their shoes, picked up a wicker basket each and waded into the shallow water. There they tied a knot in their skirts well above the knee, selected the first random pieces of washing and went to work.

And bloody hard work it was, too, by the sight of it!

First they soaked the clothes thoroughly in the water, swilling them around, and then they banged them – hard! – against a boulder or a flag. Then they rinsed them again, banged them against the stone, rinsed, banged, rinsed, banged. It went on like this until they judged the piece clean enough, at which time they folded it and laid it into the emptied basket. And continued with the next piece.

One of the heaped baskets was left under the roof, and Gwen realized with a sinking heart that it was _her_ share of the work that no-one was going to do for her. If she didn't start with it immediately, she'd be at it all night. So she dragged the basket to the bank, took off her shoes and descended the steps with a randomly chosen piece of clothing – it happened to be a tunic of some indefinite colour (or just really, _really_ filthy) – and knelt down on the last step to soak it properly.

The thing must have been made of wool, as it soaked up at least a ton of water and became accordingly heavy. She could barely lift it enough to beat it against the flag that leant into the water. It certainly wasn't enough to get it clean without the help of any soap or washing powder or whatnot. How did Earonn and Lowri manage to swing such leaden weights high enough to bang them against the stone with such force? And in such cold water, too? Despite the warm summer afternoon, the stream felt positively icy. Cold enough for her fingers to get numb.

The two stupid gits were still studiously ignoring her. Gwen gritted her teeth, rolled the sleeves of her undershift up beyond her elbow and went on. She would show them that Gwen Cooper was _not_ that easily beaten!

Unfortunately, stubborn determination alone could not make up for the complete lack of skills and experience. She whacked the sodden tunic against the flag with all her might until her arms started acting and her fingers were so cold from the water that they hurt, but it still only seemed moderately cleaner than before. She collapsed on the step and sobbed uncontrollably, while Lowri and Earonn went on with their own work vigorously. They had nearly filled their own baskets with clean clothes and didn't even seem tired. Gwen was bathed in sweat and breathing itself hurt like a bitch.

She decided that enough was enough, and if the owner of the tunic didn't find it properly clean, he could come down here and wash it again. She clambered to her feet and haphazardly folded the thing, although she felt like her arms were about to fall off, they hurt so much. She placed the wet garment in the basket and looked around for the next piece, perhaps something made of a less water absorbent material… only that she found nothing. Lowri and Earonn had clearly done _her_ share of the washing, too, while she was struggling with that single tunic.

She knew she should probably be grateful, but the only thing she could feel was anger. And humiliation. If they thought they could make fun of her, they had another thing coming!

They were still cheerfully ignoring her, busily wringing out the clothes, with the simple yet effective method of grabbing each piece on both ends and twisting it as hard as they could – and considering the strength they had displayed so far, that was saying a lot. One would have thought that hand-stitched clothes would be torn to pieces by such rough treatment but nothing like that happened. The seamstresses must have done a good job on them. Then the two women put the re-folded garments into the baskets again, picked up one basket each and headed back to the main house, without as much as a backward glance at Gwen.

Gwen was drowning in misery. She was staggering under the weight of her near-empty basket, with only the dripping woollen tunic in it; _and_ she had the feeling that everyone was giggling over her, whispering mean things to each other. Plus, she must have looked like a scarecrow, with her clothes sweaty and sodding wet, her hair having come loose and hanging into her face. She glared at the beaten dirt path before her, refusing to look at anyone, as she stumbled back towards the house.

Suddenly someone snatched the basket from her nerveless hands. A male voice said something that sounded like "Let me help you", and a sinewy arm caught her around the waist to support her. She glanced up thankfully – right into the grinning, bearded face of Trefor the groom, with whom she had ridden the first leg of their journey from the battle site to here.

Right; she should have recognized the stench. But she was too drained to even notice the smell properly. She leaned against him and let him lead her back to the outbuildings behind the house where, as she would learn later, the washed clothes would be hanged up and aired.

For the first time since they had landed here, she missed Rhys terribly.

~TBC~


End file.
